


Nothing Shall be Impossible

by terriblelifechoices



Series: Possible [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dubious Consent, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Mpreg, Mutual Pining, Prison, Protective Original Percival Graves, Torture, Violence, Wandless Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-24
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-09-26 14:27:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 61,573
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9904355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terriblelifechoices/pseuds/terriblelifechoices
Summary: Inspired by a prompt on the kinkmeme:Grindelwald figures Credence is too old and damaged to be useful, but his genes are clearly strong. Graves' genes are pretty awesome too with wandless magic and whatnot.  So he decides to make them do it and train their offspring as perfectly loyal soldiers.___“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Graves asked.Grindelwald sighed, as if he found Graves’ questions tedious.  “I told you,” he said.  “I’ve Seen your child.  Together, the two of you will produce a wizard so powerful that the armies of the world will tremble before him.  He will be the first and most honored among my generals, and together we will usher in a new era of peace and prosperity for wizard-kind.”“You know,” Graves said, conversational.  “When I asked you if you were out of your goddamn mind, theshortanswer would have been to just say yes.”





	1. Chapter 1

There were two sets of footsteps at the top of the stairs leading down to Graves’ basement prison. He’d come to know the first set very well; they were the heavy, confident footfalls of a man who expected the world to yield before him. That was Grindelwald. Graves had no idea who the second set of feet belonged to. If he hadn’t been listening for anything out of the ordinary, he probably wouldn’t have heard them at all. The second set of footsteps was much lighter, a series of quick, nervous movements contained in a very small area. A woman, maybe, or a man with a slender build. Not an accomplice, because Grindelwald didn’t _have_ accomplices, but likely not one of his fanatics, either. Fanatics tended to move with _purpose,_ and the quiet patter above him suggested that whoever the feet belonged to didn’t know why they were here at all. 

That made two of them.

Graves waited. He’d gotten good at waiting, lately. At swallowing down the rage he felt at the thought of Grindelwald spreading his poison on U.S. soil while wearing Graves’ _own fucking face_ and channeling it as best he could into the small bursts of wandless magic that were all he could manage behind Grindelwald’s anti-magic wards. He was determined to wear them down, if it was the last thing he ever did.

He wondered if Grindelwald’s nervous companion was a politician. Someone influential in the Congress, perhaps, or someone who wanted to be. Politicians weren’t generally the sort of people who enjoyed getting their hands dirty, which would at least explain the nervousness. 

If Grindelwald’s companion turned out to be one of the president’s political enemies, Graves was really going to enjoy building a case against them as soon as he was free, just so he could watch Seraphina rip them to shreds. Seraphina Picquery had come up through MACUSA the same way he had. Graves knew for a fact that she wasn’t afraid to get her hands dirty.

Graves didn’t know what he’d do if Grindelwald’s companion turned out to be one of his Aurors. Some things didn’t bear thinking on. He’d find out who Grindelwald had brought with him soon enough.

Maybe it would be better, he thought, if he didn’t recognize the other person at all.

Except, of course, he did.

It was the Barebone boy – the scrawny, pathetic No-Maj Goldstein had gotten herself demoted over.

Graves stared at him, watching the boy shrink in on himself, as if frightened by Graves’ scrutiny.

Everything went back to the Barebone boy, in the end. If Goldstein hadn’t tried to save him – if she hadn’t let her righteous crusader’s heart sabotage her career – then Graves wouldn’t have been forced to demote her. And if he hadn’t been forced to demote her, then he never would have found himself drinking alone in his office, brooding over what a _fucking waste_ it was to exile Goldstein to the wand permit office when she should have been taking Major Investigations by storm. He’d had his eye on her. Norton, his last protégé, was off terrifying potions smugglers in the wilds of San Francisco, and Goldstein had been all but lined up to take Norton’s place.

Goldstein _should_ have been fired outright. She’d provoked a potential breach of Rappaport’s law, to say nothing of what she’d cost the department in dragots for Obliviator overtime. The wand permit office had been the best he could do to salvage her career. At least she was still part of MACUSA, and if she was careful, she could still make something of herself there. And maybe, in four or five years, he could bring her back to Investigations. What was four or five years, over the course of the average wizarding lifespan? (Now, he was just grateful that the wand permit office put her out of Grindelwald’s line of sight. Goldstein, at least, was safe, even if no one else on his team was. He’d need good Aurors to clean up Grindelwald’s mess, once all of this was over.)

Graves told himself that if he hadn’t had two glasses of Roanoke Vanishing Rye Whiskey too many, then Grindelwald wouldn’t have found him so easy to subdue. He would have been quicker to draw his wand, would have avoided the slashing hex that had damn near taken his left leg off just below his knee. He would have put up a better fight.

It was probably bullshit, but if he hadn’t been drunk, he would have at least duelled Grindelwald to the death – laid down his life for the safety of his people, the way a Graves was supposed to.

“Mr. Graves?” the Barebone boy asked, sounding frightened and uncertain. He looked from Graves to Grindelwald, who was still wearing Graves’ face, the bastard.

“It’s alright, Credence,” Grindelwald said, in what he probably thought was a soothing voice. Graves hoped like hell he wasn’t using it on the junior Aurors. They’d probably run screaming for the hills. “I know this must be confusing for you, my boy.”

“You know what would make it less confusing? If you weren’t wearing my body like a badly fitting suit,” said Graves.

The smile Grindelwald gave him was poisonously sweet. “Your subordinates seem convinced. What does that say about you, I wonder?”

Nothing good, thought Graves. He knew better than to admit it, though.

“Mostly that I need to work on their observational skills,” he said blandly. “I’ve almost got a complete training regimen worked out.”

“How amusing,” said Grindelwald. “You still think you can escape.”

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?” Graves countered. As long as he was breathing, he would keep fighting. He was a Graves. He could do no less.

“Do you really think I kept you alive because I needed Polyjuice ingredients?” Grindelwald asked. “Really, Percival. I could accomplish the same results with transfigurations. I’ve kept you alive for something far, far more useful.”

“I assumed torturing me for information played a factor in your decision to keep me alive,” Graves drawled. “Seeing as you couldn’t pass for MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security if you didn’t.”

“I have a better use for you, Percival.”

Graves wasn’t going to ask. He wasn’t.

“And what is that?” he asked.

Grindelwald’s poisonous smile got a little bit wider. “For the same reason I’ve brought young Credence here,” he said. “I’ve Seen your child.”

Graves had heard that Grindelwald was a Seer. Grindelwald himself certainly seemed to believe it. Graves had yet to see any proof of Grindelwald’s claims, although he had to admit that the man’s ability to evade capture was as uncanny as it was irritating. 

“My what,” Graves said flatly.

“Your child,” Grindelwald repeated.

That statement made no more sense the second time around than it had the first.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Graves asked.

Grindelwald sighed, as if he found Graves’ questions tedious. “I told you,” he said. “I’ve Seen your child. Together, the two of you will produce a wizard so powerful that the armies of the world will tremble before him. He will be the first and most honored among my generals, and together we will usher in a new era of peace and prosperity for wizard-kind.”

“You know,” Graves said, conversational. “When I asked you if you were out of your goddamn mind, the _short_ answer would have been to just say yes.”

“I’ve Seen it,” Grindelwald insisted. He didn’t like it when Graves belittled his so-called prophecies.

“Of course you have,” muttered Graves. “How, exactly, do you expect a No-Maj to produce this mythical child of yours? The last time I checked, the androgenesis spells require both parents to have magical ability.” He pretended to consider the matter. “What’s that charming No-Maj expression? Is the stork going to bring it?”

“Credence isn’t a Muggle,” Grindelwald said, sounding vaguely affronted.

That _would_ be the thing he objected to, Graves though. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“I thought he was a squib, but he’s not,” Grindelwald continued. “He has enormous reserves of magical ability, and absolutely no way to use them. He’s too damaged to serve me as a proper wizard.”

The boy flinched at that, like Grindelwald had struck him. Grindelwald didn’t notice.

“I was going to discard him, but I had a vision. It seems young Credence will be of some use to me after all. Both of you will.”

“Lucky me,” Graves muttered.

Major Investigations had started building a profile of Grindelwald six months ago, when Grindelwald stopped rampaging across Europe and turned his attention towards the Americas instead. They were cops; criminal profiling was a useful habit. Graves had refined Grindelwald’s profile over the course of his captivity. Grindelwald had never struck him as being particularly insane. It was one of the things that made him so terrifying. He was a bigoted, genocidal terrorist, yes, but he wasn’t _crazy._ Everything he said made sense, up until you realized he was talking about slaughtering and subjugating hundreds of thousands of _people._

Now, Graves wondered if he hadn’t been wrong in his assessment of Grindelwald’s sanity. Grindelwald certainly _sounded_ crazy. Breeding people like a pair of prize crups just because you thought their offspring might be useful was insane. Of course, given the European wizarding community’s ridiculous obsession with blood purity, breeding people like livestock probably made sense. Arranged marriages were still common for European wizards, as far as he knew. That was basically the same thing with a prettier name, wasn’t it?

“Why me?” he asked. “Why not breed him yourself? You could raise an army of genocidal little fanatics, each vying for a bit of daddy’s attention. Surely you want to pass your bloodline on.”

“My bloodline,” said Grindelwald, “will be mixed with that of the second most powerful wizard in the world. Your son will serve mine. He will be my son’s loyal hound, to sleep at his feet and keep him from harm.”

 _Mercy fucking Lewis._ Grindelwald had someone picked out as a broodmare already. Graves had no idea who Grindelwald thought the second most powerful wizard in the world was – the first was obviously Grindelwald himself; Grindelwald’s ego would tolerate nothing less – but he hoped Grindelwald never caught up with the poor bastard. Listening to Grindelwald’s poison was bad enough. Being forced to endure Grindelwald’s amorous attentions … Well. That was the sort of thing that would break any man.

It wouldn’t come to that, though. Graves wouldn’t let it. He was going to escape, and he was going to make sure that Grindelwald _paid_ for his crimes. It was a lot harder for dead men to hurt the living. Not impossible, but harder. They certainly couldn’t sire children on them, which Graves was more than willing to count as a victory.

“I thought my imaginary child was going to be your general,” Graves mocked. “Now they’re supposed to serve _your_ imaginary child?”

“Every king needs an heir.”

“I hear having a kingdom helps, too.”

Grindelwald frowned at him. “Are you trying to provoke me, Percival?”

“It’s never been hard to, before,” Graves pointed out. In the first days of his captivity, simply breathing had been enough to provoke Grindelwald. Graves suspected that Grindelwald had just wanted to hurt him. He was a bully, and that was what bullies did.

Graves had been tortured before, with the Cruciatus and other, more inventive spells. He would probably be tortured again at some point before his career was over. Torture was something of an occupational hazard, when you spent most of your time chasing dark wizards. Graves wasn’t especially bothered by the prospect. If he tied himself up in knots worrying about what _might_ happen, he’d never actually get anything _done._

Plus, annoying Grindelwald was one of the few pleasures to be found in captivity.

“You are alive because you are useful to me, Percival,” said Grindelwald. “You are not invaluable. Have a care you remember that.”

“I have no intention of being useful to you,” Graves retorted. “Torture me if you like. I’m no rapist, and the Barebone boy is a child.”

“I don’t need to torture _you,”_ Grindelwald said, with an idle flick of his wand. _“Crucio.”_

The Barebone boy went to his knees. He bit through his lip, trying not to make a sound, but it did him no good in the end. He held out for longer than Graves had seen seasoned Aurors do, but he still convulsed and screamed, the same way everyone did in the face of relentless, unceasing _pain._

“Stop it,” Graves demanded. 

He shouldn’t have cared about the Barebone boy. The Barebone boy was a No-Maj – no one special. No one would even miss him, if he was gone. It shouldn’t have mattered, if Grindelwald broke his mind and his spirit with the Cruciatus. He was no one.

Graves slammed into the invisible wall of his cell. It stung where his bare skin connected to it. Graves dug his fingers in and _pulled,_ shoving what raw magic he could muster at it in an effort to tear it apart.

“Damn you, I said _stop hurting him!”_ If he stood by – if he let Grindelwald hurt the boy and did nothing to stop it, then that made him no better than one of Grindelwald’s fanatics. What did it matter, if the boy was No-Maj or not? He was still a _person,_ regardless of his magical ability.

Grindelwald lifted the curse with a flick of his wand. 

“He’s just a boy,” Graves said, ashamed of the way his voice cracked as he begged. “He doesn’t deserve any of this. Let the boy go, please.”

“Choose, Percival,” Grindelwald said, implacable. “Pleasure or pain. His fate is up to you.”

Graves didn’t think he’d ever hated anyone quite so much as he hated Grindelwald in that moment. He didn’t want to fuck the Barebone boy, but he couldn’t stand idly by and watch Grindelwald torture him to death, either. Not if there was something he could do to stop it.

He should tell Grindelwald to go to hell. Logically, rationally, it was the only choice to make. If he let Grindelwald get to him in this, he would open the floodgates and it would never stop. 

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll do what you want. Just stop hurting him.”

 

*

 

Credence didn’t understand what was happening. Mr. Graves and …. The other Mr. Graves? Percival? Both Mr. Graves’ were ignoring him. His Mr. Graves had gone implacable and menacing in a way that reminded Credence of his Ma, when she was in the sort of mood to see every little thing he did as a sin that needed to be beaten out of him. The other Mr. Graves was no better. He was leaner than the Mr. Graves Credence knew, with a rent in one leg of his pants that showed an awful wound beneath. He reminded Credence of an animal in a cage, watchful and waiting for someone to get close enough to bite.

Why were there two of them? And why did Mr. Graves want to … to breed him with the other Mr. Graves? Everyone knew that men couldn’t have babies. Unless that was something magical people could do. Mr. Graves said that Credence had magic, that he would teach him, but Credence didn’t think he was magical enough for that.

Credence fought down the wave of shame that threatened to rise up and drown him at the idea that Mr. Graves might know about the sinful, wrong things Credence didn’t know how to make himself stop wanting. Maybe Mr. Graves knew about the way Credence relived every interaction they had at night when he couldn’t sleep, lingering over the memory of every brief touch. Maybe that was why he was casting Credence aside – why he’d been prepared to discard Credence, until he’d had a vision of the son Credence was supposed to bear the other Mr. Graves.

Mr. Graves had the gift of prophecy, like Samuel and John the Baptist. He’d told Credence of a child – a special child, a _magical_ child, who needed both of their help – but he’d never mentioned that the child would be Credence’s own, foretold by prophecy. Credence wondered if this was how the Virgin Mary had felt when the Archangel Gabriel told her she was to bear God’s son: frightened and bewildered and overwhelmed. He shut his eyes and recited a Hail Mary to atone for his blasphemy. He was too sinful to ever be favored by God. And for a man to bear a child … sodomy was a sin. Everyone would look at him and _know_ he was a sinner.

Maybe that would be his penance.

“You are alive because you are useful to me, Percival,” said Mr. Graves. “You are not invaluable. Have a care you remember that.”

“I have no intention of being useful to you,” the other Mr. Graves snapped. His voice was low, a wolf’s snarl and a flash of teeth. “Torture me if you like. I’m no rapist, and the Barebone boy is a child.”

“I don’t need to torture _you,”_ Mr. Graves said contemptuously. _“Crucio.”_

Credence fell to his knees at the red-hot rush of pain that washed over him. He bit his lip and tried not to scream, because Ma didn’t like it when he screamed and Mr. Graves probably wouldn’t either, but the pain never got any better. It wasn’t like when Ma beat him. There were no waves to ride out, no space to catch his breath. It was just pain, in one long, unceasing moment that felt like it stretched into eternity. He couldn’t suppress the broken sob that escaped when it finally stopped, his nerves aflame with the memory of what he’d just endured.

“He’s just a boy,” said the other Mr. Graves, his voice hoarse. Credence thought he remembered the other Mr. Graves yelling, but he couldn’t remember what. He hadn’t really been able to hear it over the sound of his own screams. “He doesn’t deserve any of this. Let the boy go, please.”

“Choose, Percival,” said Mr. Graves. He sounded the way Credence thought the voice of God must sound, all unyielding wrath and prophecy. “Pleasure or pain. His fate is up to you.”

Credence tried to brace himself for more pain.

“Fine,” snarled the other Mr. Graves. “I’ll do what you want. Just stop hurting him.”

“There now,” said Mr. Graves. “Isn’t everything so much easier when everyone works together for the greater good?” He grabbed hold of Credence’s jacket and shoved him at the other Mr. Graves.

Credence landed hard on his knees with a frightened yelp. He scrambled backwards, trying to get as far away from the other Mr. Graves as he could. He hit the invisible barrier and yelped again, because it _hurt._ Not as badly as whatever Mr. Graves had done, but he hadn’t expected magic to hurt. It never had, before.

“Hey,” said the other Mr. Graves. “There’s no need for that. I’m not going to hurt you.”

People always said that, but they never meant it. The dark haired witch who had tried to save him from Ma might have meant it, but she hadn’t been able to help him in the end, so maybe she didn’t count. As far as Credence could tell, people who said they weren’t going to hurt him just wanted him to stop looking so afraid, because they found his fear irritating.

Credence had no desire to find out if the other Mr. Graves had a wolf’s teeth to match his wolf’s snarl. He risked a glance up at the other Mr. Graves and tried to make himself stop trembling.

“You’re Credence Barebone,” said the other Mr. Graves. “Aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir,” said Credence automatically.

“And you’ve already met someone who looks like me.”

Credence darted a look at the Mr. Graves on the other side of the magical barrier. “Yes, sir.”

“Right,” sighed the other Mr. Graves. “Well. My name is Percival Graves. I’m the Director of Magical Security and head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Credence thought it might be rude to say that he knew that already, because Mr. Graves had already told him that, so he just nodded.

“That man,” said the other Mr. Graves, pointing at the Mr. Graves Credence knew, “is the dark wizard Gellert Grindelwald. He’s imprisoned me here and assumed my identity to further his own agenda.”

Credence didn’t know what to say to that. 

“I’ve been his prisoner since just after Goldstein tried to rescue you,” the other Mr. Graves continued. “Neither of us are the man you think you know.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He swallowed down the unexpected hurt. He didn’t know Mr. Graves at all, then. Not the real one. He’d been stupid to believe in Mr. Graves – Mr. Grindelwald. Of course someone as handsome and powerful as Mr. Graves wouldn’t want to help him. Mr. Graves – the _real_ Mr. Graves – probably never would have noticed that Credence existed. Mr. Grindelwald had only noticed him because he thought Credence would be useful.

“I’m sorry,” the real Mr. Graves said, a little awkwardly.

“I’m so stupid,” Credence said. He pulled his knees up and wrapped his arms around them. Ma’s voice rang in his head. _You’re such a stupid, sinful boy._ Ma was right.

Credence pressed his face against his knees and told himself it was stupid to cry. It would probably annoy Mr. Grindelwald, too, who didn’t seem as patient or as kind, now that he wasn’t pretending to be Mr. Graves.

A warm hand clasped his shoulder. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Barebone. Grindelwald lies and deceives. It’s what he does.”

The words washed over him like absolution. Credence shivered and lifted his head up.

Mr. Graves squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry he used my face to lie to you.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Credence told him.

Mr. Graves huffed a wordless laugh and let his hand fall away. Credence immediately missed the warmth of his touch. He hated himself for how much he missed such a simple touch. It wasn’t right to want such things. No wonder Mr. Grindelwald had cast him aside. He was an invert, a freak. He didn’t belong anywhere there were good people, lest he spread his sin to them, like poison. 

Mr. Graves pressed his fingers to Credence’s chin and tilted his face up, until he had no choice but to look Mr. Graves in the eye.

“What Grindelwald wants from you – from both of us – is a monstrous thing,” Mr. Graves said.

Credence flinched. _A monstrous thing._ His prophesied child was no one’s savior. How could it be, with him for a parent? Maybe that was what it was destined to be. A monstrous thing, born of a sinner.

“I don’t want to rape you,” Mr. Graves continued. “But the alternative appears to be letting Grindelwald torture you to death.”

“You could,” Credence pointed out. It was hard to think, with Mr. Graves’ hands on his skin. Mr. Graves was still forcing Credence to look him in the eye, tilting Credence’s chin up. It was too much like baring his throat for Mr. Graves’ teeth, like making his life a sacrificial offering. “You don’t … you don’t know me. I’m nothing to you.”

“True,” Mr. Graves agreed. “But I don’t need to know you. You’re a person, Barebone, whether you’ve got magic or not. You don’t deserve to die on some madman’s whims.”

Credence stared at him. Mr. Graves sounded so _sure._ It almost sounded like he thought Credence had value just for being _Credence,_ which was just ridiculous. Credence had no trade, no useful skills. No one valued anyone simply because they existed.

“I can’t ask for your consent,” Mr. Graves said. “Neither of us are in a position to give it. Grindelwald expects me to get you with child, so all I can promise is that I’m not going to hurt you. Whatever happens, I will do my best to ensure that you feel only pleasure.”

He fell silent, plainly waiting for Credence to say something, except Credence had no idea what he wanted to hear.

“Fuck,” said Mr. Graves. “I didn’t mean – I’m not asking for your forgiveness. I don’t – I _can’t_ ask you for that. I just wanted you to know. That I don’t want to hurt you. That I _won’t,_ not if I don’t have to.”

“I – I believe you,” said Credence, because he felt like he had to say something. He didn’t really believe Mr. Graves wouldn’t hurt him, exactly. But he believed that Mr. Graves didn’t _want_ to hurt him. Maybe that could be enough.

“Right,” said Mr. Graves. “Ah. Thank you.” He let go of Credence’s chin. Credence resisted the urge to whimper at the loss. Only a fool offered up his weaknesses in the presence of a predator.

The real Mr. Graves sighed and stood up. He looked over at Mr. Grindelwald, who was still standing outside of their shared cell, watching them the way people watched animals at the zoo. “Please tell me you’re not planning on watching.”

Mr. Grindelwald made a disgusted face. “Really, Percival, don’t be vulgar.”

“I didn’t expect voyeurism to be where you drew the line, what with the murder, kidnapping and torture,” Mr. Graves shot back, his voice sharp as the edge of a knife. “You’ll have to forgive me if I’ve offended your delicate sensibilities.” He looked back at Credence, the barest hint of a smile curving up one corner of his mouth. “He’s European; they get a bit weird about things like this. It’s perfectly reasonable to participate in all sorts of awful things, but Merlin forbid you _talk_ about it.”

The real Mr. Graves was very confusing. It was almost like he’d decided that they were in this together; like he was on Credence’s side. That was a nice thought, but also a stupid one. No one was ever on Credence’s side.

Mr. Grindelwald sniffed. “I’m familiar with how … forthright you Americans are. I will never understand why you think coarse speech and bad manners is something to take pride in. All it does is display your sad lack of good breeding.”

“Mostly because the European definition of _good breeding_ includes _inbreeding,”_ said Mr. Graves.

“On that subject,” Mr. Grindelwald said.

“I thought you didn’t want to watch!”

“I don’t,” snapped Mr. Grindelwald. “What I want is for you to get on with siring my general.” He paused. “Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind.” He drew his wand.

Credence could help his automatic flinch back. Mr. Graves took a protective half-step in front of him.

“I’m a man of my word,” Mr. Graves said tightly. “Unfortunately, unless you’ve got some desiderata, all you’re getting out of me right now is my capitulation.”

Mr. Grindelwald smiled meanly. “The blue potion? At your age? You’re a wizard in your prime, Percival. You shouldn’t have to worry about performance issues for a couple more decades, at least.”

Mr. Graves spread his hands apart, making himself a bigger target for Mr. Grindelwald to hurt. “I really can’t think of anything _less_ erotic than being coerced into sexually assaulting a young man half my age because a genocidal maniac wants to start some kind of demented breeding program.”

Mr. Grindelwald produced a vial with pale blue liquid in it from one of his pockets and floated in the air towards Mr. Graves. He let it fall just before it reached Mr. Graves’ outstretched palm, and Mr. Graves was only just fast enough to catch it.

“Be grateful I’m in a merciful mood, Percival. Next time I’ll put Credence under the Imperius and have him use his mouth on you until you can service him.”

Mr. Graves growled at him. Actually _growled._ The animal sound should have sounded wrong, coming from a human throat. “Don’t you touch him.”

“Don’t force me to,” Mr. Grindelwald retorted.

Mr. Graves clenched his hands into fists, curling so tightly around the little glass vial Credence worried he was going to crush it. He took a deep breath, and then another.

Credence curled in on himself a little tighter. He knew what men who were talking themselves from the brink of violence looked like. It was better not to give them a target.

Mr. Graves knelt down next to him again. He held the little vial with its shining blue liquid in one hand. “Have a sip,” he said. “It’ll help.”

“What is it?” Credence asked.

“Desiderata. It’s … I suppose you could call it a love potion. It’s generally favored by wizards of advanced age who require some additional help. With, ah – With the physical aspects of desire.”

“Oh,” Credence said, abruptly realizing what Mr. Grindelwald meant when he’d accused Mr. Graves of ‘performance issues.’ He flushed crimson, embarrassed to be talking about such things. _“Oh._ Um. You –”

“I am not old enough to need such things, no. However, I don’t find our circumstances any more appealing than you do, hence the need for a little help.”

Credence didn’t know why _he_ needed ‘a little help.’ Mr. Grindelwald clearly intended for him to take the woman’s part in this. He was a little unclear about what, exactly, happened between a man and a woman in their marriage bed, but he was fairly certain it was a wife’s duty to lie quietly beneath her husband while he got her with child. No one ever said anything about _desire._

He let Mr. Graves heal the cut on his lip and feed him a sip of the shining blue liquid. It was shockingly warm, and he didn’t have words to describe the way it tasted, only that it was rich and wonderful and good. He felt the heat of it spread through his body, pooling in his groin. All of his confusion and fear fell away, leaving only desire behind in its wake. He wanted – he didn’t know _what_ he wanted, only that he did.

Mr. Graves cupped Credence’s face in his hands. “It’s alright,” he said. “I’ve got you.”

 

*

 

“I’ll leave you to it,” Grindelwald said. Mocking laughter trailed behind him as he vanished back up the stairs.

Graves barely heard him over the sudden, volcanic rush of heat thrumming through his veins. He made a mental note to follow up with the Department of Potions Enforcement, once he was done cleaning up Grindelwald’s mess. He’d never tried desiderata, not having any particular need for it in the past. He was certain the sudden rush of _want_ couldn’t be legal. 

Assuming Grindelwald had brewed it correctly. Accepting a potion from a genocidal fanatic had not been one of the smartest moves he’d made lately.

The Barebone boy whimpered, face tilted up towards Graves like a flower in the sun.

Right. Focus on the boy, he told himself.

“I’ve got you,” Graves said again, because the Barebone boy seemed to like the reassurance. Credence, he reminded himself. If he was going to fuck Credence, they ought to be on a first name basis. Credence looked up at Graves with dazed, dark eyes. He was trembling, Graves realized. Worse still, he was still braced for a hit. He expected to be hurt. 

_“Fuck,”_ said Graves. What Grindelwald wanted was monstrous. _Grindelwald_ was a monster, the sort of dark creature Graves had spent his whole life fighting.

That was the problem with monsters, though. When you spent your whole life fighting them, sometimes their darkness got ahold of you, and a monster you became.

This, Graves thought, would make him a monster. 

“I’m sorry,” Credence said automatically, fear cutting through his arousal.

“Hush,” Graves told him. “I wasn’t swearing at you, I was swearing at me.” He considered Credence. Maybe it was the desiderata, but he thought the Barebone boy was surprisingly lovely, now that he could feel the heat from Credence’s skin. He traced over the high, sharp curve of Credence’s cheekbone with one thumb and pressed a chaste, careful kiss to Credence’s forehead. He wasn’t sure why he did it, except that it seemed right to. It was a benediction, or maybe an apology, and it felt right enough that he pressed another kiss to Credence’s nose, to both cheekbones, to his mouth. Credence tried to kiss him back, clumsy and unsure and so terribly eager to please. 

Graves kissed him again, careful and gentle and coaxing. He swallowed down the soft, half-bitten back noises of pleasure Credence made and let his kisses turn a little bit harder, a little bit deeper. It had been some time since he’d kissed anyone like this, and he doubted Credence ever had at all.

He liked the sight of Credence’s mouth, gone pink and swollen from kissing. He liked the way Credence chased his kisses, leaning in like he couldn’t bear not being touched. He wasn’t sure if that was him or the desiderata. Graves had always enjoyed taking his time with his lovers, learning what they liked, what would make them fall apart beneath his touch. 

Graves decided it didn’t matter. He’d promised Credence pleasure. He’d give it, the same way he would to any other lover.

Grindelwald had taken his name, his face, his rank. He didn’t get to take this, too.

He pressed a little harder and almost fell on top of Credence when his bad leg gave out beneath him.

“Shit! Sorry,” he said, looking down at Credence’s startled face. “Bastard got me with a slashing hex. My leg’s still healing.”

“Does it hurt?” asked Credence.

“Not right now.” Graves pulled back. “The bed would be more comfortable, though.”

All the fear he’d worked so hard to dispel came back. “Yes, Mr. Graves.”

Graves winced and levered himself up off the floor. “You don’t need to call me that,” he said. “Or you could, if you like,” he corrected, backtracking hastily at Credence’s alarmed expression. “I only meant, you can call me Percival, if you want to. I wouldn’t mind. Whatever you’re comfortable with.”

“I – yes, sir,” Credence managed.

Graves sat down on the bed, stretching his still-healing leg out with a groan.

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Credence asked, hands outstretched like he wanted to touch Graves and wasn’t sure he could.

There were welts on his hands, Graves realized. Quite a few of them, some fresh and some nearly healed. A switch, maybe. His gaze dropped to the thin belt Credence wore around his ill-fitting trousers.

No. Not a switch. A belt.

Someone had hurt him, repeatedly, _with his own belt,_ and he was still worried for Graves? What a heart he had, to endure such things and still remain kind.

“Nothing hurt while you were kissing me,” he said, catching Credence’s hands with his own. It was difficult to cast healing charms behind Grindelwald’s anti-magic wards, but Graves had been Seraphina Picquery’s rival at Ilvermorny. Just because something was difficult didn’t mean it was impossible. It just made mastering the ability all the sweeter. 

Credence gasped as his wounds faded and leaned down to kiss him. Graves tugged him down onto the bed, pressing him back onto the thin mattress. He pressed kisses against the curve of Credence’s jaw, down the vulnerable column of his throat.

“Tell me,” he said. “Tell me if I do something you don’t like, or if it hurts. I want you to feel good.”

“I do,” Credence said.

“Good,” said Graves. He let himself get lost in kissing Credence again, striping away both of their shirts and trousers and Credence’s union suit as he did so. He liked the way Credence mewled when he pinched his nipples; he didn’t want to hurt Credence, but a little pain sometimes added spice to the pleasure. He wondered what Credence would do once Graves got his mouth on his cock.

The answer, it turned out, was keen high in the back of his throat and come, suddenly and without warning.

“Sorry,” Credence gasped, throwing one arm over his face. Even now, when he ought to have been boneless and sated, he was still trying to hide. Still trying to keep from being hurt again.

“Don’t be,” Graves rumbled, wiping his mouth on his discarded shirt. “You did exactly what you were supposed to.” He pressed a kiss against the too-bony curve of Credence’s hip and worked his way back up again, determined to make Credence come again and again, until he was pleasure-soaked and not even the memory of pain disturbed him. Young as Credence was, it wouldn’t take much to bring him to the brink again.

“I want you to feel good,” he said, palming Credence’s softening cock. “Let me make you feel good.”

His own erection throbbed. He was distantly aware of the desiderata burning through him. Part of him wanted to shove Credence down, get the boy beneath him and fuck into him until the desiderata burned itself out. It would be so _easy_ – 

– It would be monstrous. More monstrous than what Graves was already doing.

Graves told himself that it didn’t matter, so long as Credence felt good. He would offer pleasure rather than pain now, and make reparations later, once he was free.

He let Credence thrust against his thigh, trading kisses back and forth while the pleasure built. The movement jarred his bad leg, and Graves clung to the pain to keep from coming too soon.

“I want,” he said, stripping out of his union suit and then turning his attention to Credence.

“Mr. Graves?” Credence sounded dazed, half out of his mind on endorphins and desiderata.

“I want you,” Graves admitted, stroking a hand down Credence’s knobby spine, coming to rest, possessive, on Credence’s ass.

“Take me,” Credence said. “Please. I want it. I want you.”

“You’ve got me,” Graves assured him, kissing Credence to stop the frantic flow of words.

He hadn’t used the lubricating spells in longer than Graves cared to admit. His career left him little time for any romantic entanglements beyond five minutes with his own right hand, and even that had been sporadic. The spell still came easily, wandless and wordless. (There were, Graves felt, fewer things that derailed one’s plans for the evening than having to get one’s wand out for spells of this nature. It was almost better to proceed the way the No-Maj’s did, and open your partner up by touch. Not all wizards cared for such practices, but Graves had always found it terribly intimate.)

“What was that?” Credence asked.

“Spell to make things easier,” Graves told him. “Not everyone likes this. Tell me if you don’t.” He circled his thumb around the newly slick heat of Credence’s hole, keeping the pressure steady until Credence’s body let him in.

He wasn’t sure what he’d do if Credence didn’t like being penetrated. He could hardly get Credence with child if he didn’t. Maybe he could Credence just open enough for the head of his cock. Graves could make himself come – it wasn’t going to take much, at this point – and hope that was enough.

“Oh,” Credence said, sounding startled. He wiggled, taking Graves’ thumb all the way in. “That’s – strange. But good?” He wiggled again.

“Fuck,” Graves swore. “You’re going to be the death of me.” He pulled his thumb free and pressed in with his index finger instead. Credence moaned at the stretch, dropping his head to Graves’ shoulder and gasping breathily against his skin.

Graves pressed a second finger in, curling his fingers and searching for the spot that would make Credence fall apart.

“Oh, merciful God,” Credence said, when he found it. “Please. Please, I need –”

“I know,” Graves soothed him, keeping an iron grip on his control. Credence was hot and tight inside; too tight. If he took the boy now, it would hurt. He pressed a third finger in, working Credence open. “You’re doing so well. Just a little bit more.”

He wanted – oh, how he wanted – to line the head of his cock up and lose himself in that tight, slick heat. That was probably the desiderata, which _definitely_ needed to be re-classed as a restricted potion. Graves shoved the impulse down. He had the determination and the will to master wandless spellcasting. He could master this too.

“Please,” Credence begged.

“I’ve got you,” Graves said again, sliding his fingers free. He pushed inside in slow increments, pulling back and rocking ever-so-slightly forward, opening Credence up with his cock.

Credence moaned.

Graves froze, trying to determine if that had been a moan of pain or pleasure. “Do you need me to stop?”

“N-no,” Credence managed. “Don’t stop, please.”

Graves kissed the corner of his mouth. “Tell me if you change your mind,” he commanded. He tilted his hips, sliding a little farther in. He went back to opening Credence up in carefully, and he couldn’t help the triumphant noise he made when he was finally, gloriously, all the way inside.

“How do you feel?” he asked, almost trembling with the effort it took to not lose himself and rut wildly into Credence.

Credence bit his lip and said nothing.

“Credence?” Graves asked, feeling the first prickles of alarm.

“I feel – sinful,” blurted Credence. “Sodomy is a sin, but it feels so right, having you inside of me. And I – I _like_ it.”

Right. The No-Maj’s were ridiculously invested in their religions. The awful Second Salem woman liked to carry on about sin and evil and witchcraft. Graves had never paid her much mind, but it was obvious that Credence believed her poison.

“There’s no shame in that,” Graves said firmly, drawing back so he had the leverage to fuck Credence properly. “There’s no sin in enjoying this, or the way I make you feel. _I’m_ enjoying it. You feel so good around me. You’re so hot, so tight, it’s almost unbearable.” It was hard to stop the flow of words once he’d gotten started. “Look at you,” Graves said. “You’re taking me so well. You look absolutely perfect, stretched around my cock, breathless and squirming with pleasure.” He adjusted the angle of his thrusts, trying to find Credence’s prostate.

Credence yelped when he found it, sounding startled and a little overwhelmed. “Oh! Oh, God.”

“That’s it,” Graves crooned. “Let me make you feel good. Let me watch you fall apart, that’s it, darling, please.” He was so close, but he didn’t want to come before Credence did. He had to make Credence feel good. He’d promised.

“Let go,” he begged. “I’ve got you.” He worked one hand between them so he could stroke Credence’s cock. Credence spilled into his waiting palm with a breathless shout that might have been Graves’ name.

Graves managed half a dozen more thrusts before he slammed in deep and came with a shout of triumph. He collapsed onto the narrow cot, tugging Credence against his chest to avoid crushing the boy with his weight. The desiderata was sated now, so it was much easier to focus on the boy in his arms. 

He took a deep breath to steady himself and made himself ask. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Credence said, sounding dazed.

“That’s – I’m glad,” Graves said. He stroked his hand down Credence’s side, coming to rest on his belly. “The Graves name is yours, should a child come of this. We may not be one of Europe’s pureblood lines, but the Graves name is well-respected here. I’ll protect you both, from this day until my last, I swear it.”

“Thank you,” Credence said, but the words sounded more like a question.

Graves cursed inwardly. Credence was right to question him. How could he protect anyone, prisoner that he was? He’d grown too accustomed to the respect the Graves name garnered. He had no right to Credence’s trust.

“Get some sleep,” Graves advised, going through the messy business of separating from Credence and getting them both cleaned up. “I’ll keep watch.”

“I could help,” Credence volunteered instantly.

Graves cupped the boy’s head in his hand, skritching the short hairs at the base of his neck. “There’s no need,” he murmured. “I’ve got you.”

Credence sighed and went boneless beneath him. “Yes, Mr. Graves.”


	2. Chapter 2

Mr. Grindelwald took Credence back to the church just after dawn. He was wearing his own face when he appeared outside of Mr. Graves’ cell. Credence was relieved to see it. It was confusing, having two Mr. Graves’. Mr. Grindelwald was near Mr. Graves’ age, he thought, but fair where Mr. Graves was dark. He had pale, mismatched eyes and high cheekbones. He looked like one of the strange, fae creatures the Irish dockworkers were always muttering about, or maybe like one of Ma’s witches – the evil kind.

Mr. Grindelwald drank something from the silver flask he kept tucked into one of his jacket pockets. Credence had seen him drinking from it before and assumed contained liquor of some sort, except Mr. Grindelwald’s body shifted until he looked like Mr. Graves. Liquor didn’t do that.

“What should I do?” he asked Mr. Grindelwald.

“Stay,” said Mr. Grindelwald. “Wait for me. I’ll come for you.”

“What about …”

Mr. Grindelwald sighed impatiently. “It’s too soon to tell. I’ll come for you in a week.”

Credence nodded. He wanted to ask if Mr. Grindelwald would take him away if he was with child. Surely Mr. Grindelwald would want to look after his future general? But if Mr. Grindelwald took him away, then who would look after Modesty?

He went up the church steps to face his penance. He’d been out all night; Ma would be furious.

Ma was. She used Credence’s belt on his back, doling out more licks than she ever had before. Credence bit his lip and tried to cry quietly. He was a sinner and he deserved to be punished. He’d let Mr. Graves sodomize him and he’d _liked_ it, liked the way his whole body sang with joy beneath Mr. Graves’ attentions. How could something so sinful feel so good? The Bible said it was wrong.

Mr. Graves said it wasn’t. Credence knew which of the two he’d rather believe, but that was probably stupid. He was a stupid, sinful boy.

Credence carefully pulled his shirt and jacket back on. His union suit stuck to his skin, rubbing against the raw places where the belt had broken his skin.

That was the way of things in the Old Testament. Penance was supposed to be paid in blood. Credence had made penance, but he wasn’t penitent. He had not – he _could_ not – repent the time he’d spent with Mr. Graves. Maybe he really was as wicked and sinful as Ma thought.

Credence went to the water closet down the hall and splashed cold water on his face. Ma didn’t want the good people of New York associating her ministry with crying children unless they were crying tears of joy at her kindness.

“It was wrong of you to stay out all night,” Chastity told him. “Mother was worried sick. We thought you were dead in an alley somewhere.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence told her. He didn’t ask if she was disappointed that he wasn’t dead in an alley somewhere. He didn’t want to know the answer.

“Where were you?” Modesty asked.

Credence opened his mouth to lie and realized that he didn’t have to. Mr. Grindelwald had brought him to Mr. Graves with magic; he had no idea where Mr. Graves actually was. 

The thought made him feel strangely sad.

“I don’t know,” he told his sisters. He was glad he didn’t have to lie; Chastity was almost as good as Ma, when it came to sussing out a lie. He thought back to the previous night’s confusion and added, “I was lost.”

Physically, spiritually, emotionally. He was lost. He was still lost now, under the cold, clear light of morning.

Chastity sniffed, not notably appeased with his answer.

“Come on,” she said to Modesty. “We have work to do.”

There was nothing else he could do but follow them.

 

*

 

Ma was still angry with him at suppertime, which meant half-rations of the gruel and none of the bread. She handed him one of the church’s battered Bibles and told him to feed his soul instead. “Not,” she added, mouth pursed in a thin, disapproving line, “that it will do anything about your sinful nature.”

Credence dropped his gaze and hunched in on himself. “Yes, Ma.”

Ma would know if he didn’t at least try to read it. He flipped through the familiar pages and stopped on the Book of Luke. He traced his fingers over the words _and the angel said unto her, Fear not, Mary: for thou hast found favor with God. And behold, thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and bring forth a son, and shalt call his name Jesus. He shall be great, and shall be called the Son of the Highest._

Fear not.

Maybe it made him unworthy, but Credence was afraid. He didn’t know how not to be. He hadn’t been, this morning. He’d woken up feeling safe and warm. He thought it was a dream at first, because the upper floors of the church were drafty and cold and he’d never really felt safe within its walls. And then he tried to get out of bed to start his chores and realized that he _was_ safe and warm, because Mr. Graves had him tucked, careful and protected, into his side, one arm thrown across Credence’s back like a shield. Mr. Graves came awake all at once, rolling off the cot and onto his feet, one hand groping for something – a weapon, maybe – that wasn’t there.

“Really, Percival,” sighed Mr. Grindelwald, strolling down the basement stairs. “Put some clothes on. You’re not an animal.”

“Sorry,” Mr. Graves said, baring his teeth in something not quite like a smile. “It’s a bit hard to remember that, what with the cage and all.” His nudity didn’t seem to bother him, because he took his time putting his clothes back on, like he was daring Mr. Grindelwald to say something about it. 

Credence darted a guilty glance at him. Mr. Graves was lean, in a way that reminded Credence of a feral dog. He’d been well muscled once, but now he was pared down to the bone. Still fighting-fit, but only just. There was a starburst of scar tissue along his left shoulder blade, like someone had tried to shoot him in the back. Maybe someone had. Credence hadn’t thought that magical people could be hurt the way ordinary ones could. Mr. Grindelwald and Mr. Graves had both healed his hurts, and surely anyone who could do that could heal their own.

Mr. Graves passed Credence a bundle of his own clothes. They were clean, Credence realized. Probably cleaner than they would be after washing day.

“The cleaning spell’s a simple one,” Mr. Graves said gruffly, by way of explanation.

“You shouldn’t be able to cast even a simple spell behind my wards,” Mr. Grindelwald said. He sounded pleased, rather than annoyed.

“Maybe your wards aren’t as strong as you think they are,” Mr. Graves retorted, turning back to face him. 

“Or maybe it’s simply proof that I chose rightly. My general will be unstoppable, with your wandless magic and Credence’s magical reserves at his disposal.”

“My son,” Mr. Graves said, “will never serve you. No Graves ever would.”

Mr. Grindelwald lifted his eyebrows. “Why shouldn’t he?” he inquired. “You did.”

Mr. Graves made a horrible noise of rage and desperation. He slammed into the invisible barrier again, like he wanted to tear it down with his bare hands.

“Come along, Credence,” Mr. Grindelwald said. “It’s time to take you home.”

“Wait,” Mr. Graves snarled. “You bastard, _wait –”_

Mr. Grindelwald put one hand through the barrier and yanked Credence through, and then they were gone.

Credence thought he could have dismissed the whole thing as a dream. He probably would have, except he ached in unexpected places. He could still remember what it felt like, the stretch of his body giving way for Mr. Graves’ cock, how full he’d felt, like that point of connection was the only important thing in the world. Not even he, sinner that he was, had the imagination for anything like _that._

He wondered if he was with child. He didn’t know the first thing about raising children, much less a prophesied one.

He stopped again a little bit farther down the passage. _And, behold, thy cousin Elizabeth, she hath also conceived a son in her old age: and this is the sixth month with her, who was called barren. For with God, nothing shall be impossible._

Elizabeth’s son was John the Baptist, who preached Christ’s work and baptized in his name. Not exactly a general, but something close to it.

Credence closed the bible and hoped – _prayed_ – that his own son came to a better end than Elizabeth’s or Mary’s. It was surely blasphemous to think so, and ungrateful besides. Martyrs were blessed and holy, for they demonstrated the true path to God through the strength of their convictions.

Credence didn’t know how to be a parent, but if he was, he thought he would want the same things for his son that he wanted for Modesty: that his son be safe, and protected, and grow to adulthood knowing that he was loved.

Mr. Grindelwald didn’t seem like he put much stock in any of those things. Why would he? They would only make his prophesied general weak. Mr. Grindelwald had no use for sniveling cowards like Credence.

Credence pressed a hand to his stomach, where Mr. Graves had touched him, after, and told him that he would protect them both. Mr. Grindelwald had said it was too soon to tell, but Credence wanted his son to know, just in case. 

“I love you,” he whispered. “More than anything. No matter what, I love you.”

 

*

 

Mr. Grindelwald came for him exactly one week later, appearing suddenly in the alley where they usually met. _“Diagnoskien,”_ he muttered, flicking his wand at Credence. 

Credence flinched at the unexpected brush of magic. He didn’t trust it, now that he knew that it could be used to hurt.

“Damn,” Mr. Grindelwald said, sounding disappointed. He grabbed Credence’s elbow and wrenched them both back into the house where Mr. Graves was kept. Only Mr. Grindelwald’s hand on his collar kept him from falling headfirst down the stairs. Traveling by magic was disorienting, and if Credence had been allowed to have an opinion on it, he would have said that he didn’t like it.

Mr. Grindelwald dragged him down the stairs like an errant puppy and flung him at Mr. Graves’ feet. Mr. Graves stood up as soon as he heard the two of them at the top of the stairs. The look on his face frightened Credence. He looked at Mr. Grindelwald with terrifying intensity, like he wanted nothing more than to wrap his hands around Mr. Grindelwald’s throat and _squeeze._

“It didn’t take,” Mr. Grindelwald snapped. “Try again.”

“Of course it didn’t take,” Mr. Graves snarled back. “The boy is half-starved and entirely terrified. Have you forgotten how delicate those spells are? Even happy, healthy wizards sometimes try for _years_ without success.”

Mr. Grindelwald hissed at him. “Did you do something to interfere?” he demanded. “Some contraceptive charm, perhaps? You’re powerful enough to cast one behind my wards.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?” Mr. Graves retorted. “I promised you my capitulation. I’m a man of my word.”

“You’re canny enough to find loopholes, when it suits you, Percival,” said Mr. Grindelwald. “I would not advise doing so again. It will not end well for anyone.”

Mr. Graves went very still. “I don’t like being threatened,” he said, voice soft.

“It wasn’t a threat, Percival. It was a promise.” Mr. Grindelwald smiled at Mr. Graves. _“Crucio,”_ he murmured. 

Mr. Graves convulsed and fell over, screaming like the hounds of hell were trying to tear him apart.

“Please,” Credence begged. “Please, stop hurting him.”

Mr. Grindelwald ignored him, watching Mr. Graves with something like hunger in his eyes. He flicked his wand and Mr. Graves sucked in a huge, gasping breath. 

“Bastard,” he spat.

Mr. Grindelwald smiled at him. “Next time, I’ll use it on Credence.”

“Yes, because that will absolutely make it easier for him to conceive,” Mr. Graves said, dripping sarcasm. “You might at least consider feeding him up a little. Or did you want your imaginary general to be scrawny and undersized?”

“He won’t be,” said Mr. Grindelwald, with the surety of prophecy behind him.

“Really,” Mr. Graves said, very flat and unimpressed. “The boy is skin and bones. Get a hot meal into him and I’ll do what you want. You can even dose it with a fertility potion.”

“You’re not really in a position to bargain, Percival,” Mr. Grindelwald pointed out, but he sounded almost … amused? Credence didn’t know what to make of the two of them. Every interaction he’d observed between the two of them had been very strange, even by magical people standards.

“Of course I am,” Mr. Graves said. “But you won’t like the terms. Get Credence a hot meal, please, and I’ll see about serving your,” he sighed. “Your _greater good.”_

“Oh, very well,” said Mr. Grindelwald. “If it means so very much to you.” He waved his wand and a table with more food on it than Credence had ever seen suddenly appeared. “Go on, then,” he said to Credence. “Eat.”

“I couldn’t,” said Credence, belly cramping with hunger. Even full rations of gruel weren’t exactly _filling._ And this – this was a wealthy man’s supper. Stuffed mushrooms, an actual steak, roasted potatoes and carrots, real wheat bread with fresh butter, a salad Credence didn’t recognize and at least three different kinds of soup. There was even, he noticed, real orange juice in a glass, smelling of sunshine and citrus and unimaginable luxury.

“Eat,” Mr. Grindelwald repeated, a little more forcefully this time.

Credence sat down at the little table. He bent his head and said grace, because Ma would _know_ if he didn’t, and he reached out with trembling hands to take a slice of bread.

“You can have more than the bread,” Mr. Graves said softly. Kindly. “It’s not a trick. You won’t get in trouble for it. No one’s going to take it away, either.”

Credence nibbled the bread, dry, because butter was a luxury. It still tasted better than anything he’d ever had. It was soft and still warm from the oven.

“Try the steak,” advised Mr. Graves. “It’s quite good.”

“I couldn’t,” Credence said again. It felt wrong, to sit here and glut himself with both of them watching.

“Of course you can,” said Mr. Graves. “Try it, at least. It’s from the Waldorf-Astoria. One of their chefs is a wizard. Sometimes Oscar lets me get away with taking my meals home.” A wry curl of humor touched his mouth. “It seems he lets my imposter get away with it too.”

Credence had heard of the Waldorf-Astoria. New York’s elite used to patronize it, although according to the papers they’d moved on to greener pastures. Ma said it was a place for decadents and sinners, and no moral person should walk through its doors.

He cut a slice of steak, graceless and sloppy, and bit into it. Ma would beat him bloody if she knew he was eating food from the Waldof-Astoria. Such fine things were surely wasted on him, but it was _good._ The steak was tender, the juices running down his chin. Credence couldn’t remember the last time he’d had real meat. He scrubbed at his face and had another bite, daring to combine it with some of the bread.

Credence tried a bite of the potatoes and carrots. They were soft and flavored with herbs he couldn’t name. Those went well with the steak, too. He marveled at New York’s elite. They had food this good to eat, and they chose to go somewhere else? What could possibly be better than this?

The salad was covered with an unfamiliar dressing, and flavored with sweet nuts for variety. His sisters would have liked them. Chastity had a sweet tooth she was forever denying, because such luxuries were sins. But even she couldn’t have argued with their presence in a salad. Credence wished he could save some for her.

The soup was nothing like the thin gruel Ma fed the orphans. One of them was rich and meaty while another was thick and hearty, flavored with something Credence couldn’t identify and decided he liked. The last was chicken with noodles, the only one he recognized, and delicious beyond compare when it wasn’t watered down until it was almost unrecognizable. 

The orange juice was probably his favorite. It was thick and pulpy and it tickled his throat, but it was sweet and tasted like summer. He demolished the glass without thinking and was startled to see it refill itself.

Credence ate until his stomach hurt, uncomfortably full. He’d eaten maybe a quarter of the food on the table, if that. The waste was unimaginable, but neither Mr. Graves nor Mr. Grindelwald commented on it.

Mr. Grindelwald pressed a tiny bottle into his hands. The liquid inside was a vibrant green color. “Drink,” he commanded.

Credence drank it. If the orange juice had been liquid summer, then the tiny bottle contained liquid spring. It was sweet in the way that berries were, just a hint of something tart beneath. He wished, greedily, that the little bottle would refill itself the way the orange juice had. It didn’t.

“See?” Mr. Graves asked. “I told you it was good.” He stared at Credence with the same sort of intensity that he’d turned on Mr. Grindelwald. Credence felt the first, faint prickles of fear and then he realized that Mr. Graves was looking at the _food._

Credence cut another piece of steak and slid it between two pieces of bread. “For Modesty,” he lied, tucking it inside his jacket.

“Such nurturing instincts,” murmured Mr. Grindelwald. “I chose very well indeed.” He shoved Credence through the barrier. “Don’t forget your promise, Percival.”

“Believe me,” Mr. Graves sighed. “I haven’t.”

 

*

 

Graves was honestly surprised that it took Grindelwald a whole week to drag Credence down to his basement prison again, hissing ridiculous accusations about Graves trying to thwart his plans. He knew that Grindelwald _could_ be patient – the man was a wanted terrorist with an eye towards dynastic world domination; he clearly understood the value of the long game – but he also knew that Grindelwald preferred not to wait if he didn’t have to. Waiting the requisite nine months it took to incubate his general was likely all the patience Grindelwald had for this particular project.

He couldn’t say that he was sorry it hadn’t taken. A child – _his_ child – would be another hostage for Grindelwald to use against him, and one far more effective than poor Credence. Graves didn’t want to see Credence hurt because he wasn’t, no matter what so many of his senior Aurors thought, a complete asshole. If Grindelwald tried to hurt his child … Well. Graves would probably do whatever Grindelwald wanted, just to make sure that never happened. And then he’d tear the bastard’s throat out, the first chance he got.

He was a little sorry about what the lack of conception meant for Credence.

“Hello, Credence,” he said. 

Credence darted a nervous look at him. “Hello, Mr. Graves,” he said, politely. 

Graves had rather a lot of time over the last week to think about what he’d say to Credence, if he ever saw him again. _I’m sorry_ and _I understand if you want to press charges_ had been his initial thoughts, although those were also things he’d hoped to say after he was free. He wanted to offer to pay for Credence to see a Healer who was also a fully trained Legilimens, someone who could help the boy process what he’d been through, not to mention the Barebone woman’s awful rhetoric. It wouldn’t make up for what he’d done, but it was the only reparation he could think of that might actually help.

“I’m sorry,” he said, because he was, and he didn’t need to be a free man to say it.

Credence looked puzzled. “For what, sir?”

“Everything,” said Graves. “For what Grindelwald wants me to do to you.” 

He wasn’t quite brave enough to say: _For being the tool Grindelwald used to assault you._

“Oh,” said Credence, still looking confused. “It’s alright.”

“Merlin’s beard,” said Grindelwald. “You don’t need to _woo_ him, Percival.”

For the span of a single heartbeat, Graves was almost grateful to the genocidal maniac for ruining the awkward moment with an even more awkward moment. 

“There is something terribly wrong with you,” he said. “If you think _that_ was wooing.”

“You insisted on feeding him, and now you’re making awkward small talk as a detour to getting him into bed. It’s a poor attempt at wooing, to be sure, but the behavior is the same.” Grindelwald shook his head. “You Americans really have no idea how to behave amongst civilized people.”

“This from the man _holding me prisoner,”_ said Graves.

“Hostage taking is perfectly civilized behavior,” Grindelwald said. 

Graves wanted to point out that Grindelwald hadn’t exactly followed any code of conduct where the treatment of prisoners of war was concerned, what with the starvation and sleep deprivation and torture. But Grindelwald was clearly in one of his manic phases; he’d fixated on the idea of Graves’ child being his general, and pushing him too far would only result in an extended torture session. Graves could endure that, but Grindelwald had two potential targets at his mercy now, and he couldn’t risk Grindelwald choosing Credence for something _he’d_ done. 

“If you’re _quite_ done insulting my romantic prowess, a bit of privacy would be nice,” he said, leashing his anger and shoving it down. 

“Just make sure you bed him,” Grindelwald reminded him. “You won’t like what I’ll do if you don’t.”

“Of that,” Graves told him, “I have no doubt.”

He waited until Grindelwald had gone all the way up the stairs again and said, “I’m sorry for all of that, too. Talking about you like you’re not here is rude. It seemed … safer. To keep him focused on me.”

Credence’s confused expression had gone a little strained around the edges; he was clearly overwhelmed by something and couldn’t articulate it. 

Shit. Graves had wanted to reassure the kid, not shell shock him.

“Hey,” he said, resting a hand on the back of Credence’s head. “Look at me. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just breathe with me, okay? You’re gonna be fine. My word as a Graves, you’ll be fine.” The words slipped out, easy and unthinking. He’d said it a hundred thousand times before, to terrified witnesses and junior Aurors and MACUSA staffers to whom the name _Graves_ meant _safety._

Graves had grown up with the knowledge that there should always be a Graves in MACUSA; that was just the way it had always been, going all the way back through the generations to Gondulphus Graves himself. The Graves name meant protection; a shield, between wizarding America and anyone who wanted to do them harm.

It meant none of that to Credence. As far as Credence was concerned, the name _Graves_ was probably synonymous with _liar,_ since that was what Grindelwald had done. Credence had no reason to believe in him.

Credence took a shaky breath, and then another. “I don’t understand,” he said, voice small. His shoulders were up around his ears, so tense that Graves’ own muscles ached in sympathy.

Graves rubbed between his shoulders, trying to offer sympathy. Credence made a tiny noise of pain and went still, like he expected Graves to hurt him.

“What don’t you understand?” Graves asked, in lieu of tearing at Credence’s clothes and checking him for injury. He stopped trying to rub the boy’s shoulders, wary of causing him further harm.

“Why are you – why do you talk to me like I matter?” Credence asked, visibly bracing himself for a blow.

Graves was in no way qualified to answer that question. This was why he’d wanted to pay for Credence to see a Healer who was also a Legilimens, because they could answer questions like that without making things worse. Graves was good with traumatized witnesses because he had to be, in order to get his job done. He knew what to say to the junior Aurors and MACUSA staffers because he’d been where they were, and all he had to tell them was the things his mentors told him, or the things he _wished_ his mentors had told him.

He had no idea how to talk to people when it _mattered._

“Because you do,” he said. This was a wholly inadequate answer, if Credence’s frustrated expression was anything to judge by. “I told you before: you’re a person, regardless of magical ability. That means you deserve to be treated _as_ a person, with dignity and respect.” 

Not everyone felt the same. It was easy to disregard the No-Maj’s as somehow lesser, just because they couldn’t do magic. (Because their lack of magic made them _less,_ in the eyes of wizards like Grindelwald. As far as Graves was a concerned, that was all the more reason to treat the No-Maj’s with respect. He hadn’t been quite so open-minded about the No-Maj’s before, but spite was a powerful motivator.)

“I’m not worth your respect,” Credence said. He sounded matter-of-fact about it, which was horrible on more levels than Graves had the words to describe. “Mr. Grindelwald says I can’t use whatever magical ability I have, so I’ll never – I’ll never be like you. I can’t be useful to you, except as your whore. I don’t have a trade. I’m no use to you. There’s no point in being nice to me.”

“I’m not _nice,”_ Graves protested, and kicked himself for being twelve kinds of an idiot a second later. That was _not_ the part he ought to be focusing on. “You don’t need to have a trade to be useful, or worthy of respect. And you’re not my whore. You’re …” He didn’t want to say that Credence was a victim, even though that was what he was. It seemed unkind, to label him so harshly. (And maybe, the cold, rational part of him that was starting to sound like Grindelwald said, you don’t want to use that label because you don’t want him to think of himself as _your_ victim. Graves ignored that particularly mental voice. It was an asshole.) 

“You’re a young man with a kind heart,” he said. “You’ve not had many advantages so far, but you haven’t let it make you small-minded or mean. Everything the world ever told you about magic should make you afraid, but here you are.”

“I’m here because I was stupid,” Credence protested. “I wanted to believe Mr. Grindelwald when he said I was special. I’m not … I’m not brave, or anything like that.”

Graves didn’t know what to say to that. Most junior Aurors had too much ego rather than too little. He’d never met anyone who genuinely believed they deserved all the awful shit that happened to them, much less someone who’d clearly been told so repeatedly. Credence seemed to have internalized it as a fact of life.

“Want to know something?” he asked. “That’s why I’m here, too. I was stupid. I’d had a bit to drink, the night Grindelwald caught me. Well. More than a bit. Like I said, stupid.” He sighed. “Maybe we can be stupid together.”

“I’d like that,” Credence said, so quietly Graves almost didn’t catch it.

“Me too,” said Graves. He was somewhat surprised to find that he meant it.

Credence pressed a quick, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. He pulled back, red as a tomato and looking mortified by his own daring.

“I’m glad it’s you,” he said, turning impossibly redder. “Rather than Mr. Grindelwald.”

“Me too,” Graves said, because the thought of what Grindelwald would have done in his place made him want to punch something. Grindelwald considered himself too civilized for rape; he preferred mental, physical and occasionally emotional torture to the sexual variety. At least where Graves was concerned; Graves was fairly certain that wouldn’t hold true whenever Grindelwald got his hands on the second most powerful wizard in the world. 

Grindelwald would’ve taken Credence’s already abysmal sense of self-worth and ground it into nothing. He’d have made Credence believe that birthing an army of fanatics was the only way he could be useful; the only way he had any value at all.

Credence was better off with him. He knew that, even if what Grindelwald wanted turned his stomach.

“You deserve better than either of us, though,” he said. “How’s your back?”

“Fine,” Credence said, too quickly. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with it.”

Graves snorted. “My junior Aurors like telling me they’re fine, too. Usually while trying to pretend that getting flung into walls or having half a building dropped on them has absolutely nothing to do with their concussions, no sir, why do you ask?” He let his voice fall into Norton’s earnest Midwestern accent towards the end, because Norton courted head trauma like he thought he was a beater for the Fitchburg Finches. “I never believe them, either. Come on. Get your jacket and your shirt off and let me take a look. I’m no Bluebird, but I can probably fix whatever’s wrong.”

“Bluebird?” Credence repeated, obediently stripping off his jacket and starting on his shirt buttons.

“Aelinor Bluebird,” clarified Graves. “She’s the strongest mediwitch in the country. Lovely woman. Also, completely terrifying.” Anyone stupid enough to get themselves hurt so badly that the Bluebird took a personal interest in their case was going to wake up to her scowling face, just before she proceeded to verbally eviscerate them for being too stupid to live. It was the sort of thing that made a man reconsider his life choices.

Graves was probably the only person stupid enough to wake up to the Bluebird _and_ Seraphina scowling down at him. It was not an experience he wanted to repeat. Ever.

He fell silent when Credence unbuttoned his union suit and shoved it off his shoulders. The boy’s back was littered with welts, some still red and raw. All of them were under a week old.

Fury rose up, thick enough to choke on. “What happened?”

“Ma didn’t like me being out all night. She was worried.”

 _Worried_ was not the word Graves would have used. He rested his right hand against Credence’s spine and focused on healing the damage.

Goldstein said the awful Second Salem woman beat her children. She’d yelled it at him, actually. “She beats those kids of hers, sir! It’s not _right!_ Someone should do something!”

“Let the No-Maj’s deal with the No-Maj’s,” he’d told her. That was MACUSA’s official policy, and Graves had never had reason to find fault in it before. Now, it seemed more like negligence.

It was different now, looking at the damage that had been wrought. If Graves got his hands on a Time Turner, he’d use it to go back to that moment and punch his past self in the mouth for being a sanctimonious prick. Seraphina might actually authorize the use of one, just for that. She approved of anything that kept his ego in check.

Tituba’s bones. How did he make this right?

He hated being powerless, and not just in the sense of being cut off from the magic that was his birthright. He couldn’t keep Credence safe, captive as he was. He couldn’t even stop Grindelwald from dragging the boy back to his awful, monstrous mother. He was stuck in a cage where the only thing he could do was offer Credence brief moments of pleasure, rather than pain.

_Fuck._

“Mr. Graves?” Credence asked. He turned so he could look at Graves, and whatever he saw made him hunch his shoulders and shrink in on himself.

“Don’t,” snapped Graves.

Credence flinched.

“Shit. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He took a deep breath and wrangled his temper back under control. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. Not now, or ever. I promise. I will never, ever hurt you.”

He reached for the bottle of desiderata. It wasn’t exactly a calming draught, but it was all he had. He’d hidden it, last time, against the eventuality of being put to stud again. He didn’t trust Grindelwald’s veneer of civilized behavior enough to believe that he wouldn’t make Credence fellate Graves into an erection. Not when Grindelwald had threatened him with that very thing.

“Let me be good to you,” he said, hating himself. “Let me make you feel good.”

Credence unhunched just a little. “Yes, Mr. Graves.”


	3. Chapter 3

The real Mr. Graves was just as confusing as Credence remembered. Credence was starting to think that maybe Mr. Graves really did value him just for existing, which made no sense whatsoever.

Nothing Mr. Graves did made sense. He got angry when he saw the marks on Credence’s back, but he wasn’t mad at Credence for being so sinful he needed to be punished. Credence thought maybe Mr. Graves was angry with Ma.

Credence got angry with Ma sometimes, when he knew – he _knew_ – he wasn’t being sinful and she punished him for it anyway. It never did him any good, being angry, so he’d learned to swallow it down and hide it, just in case Ma caught a hint of it and thought that needed to be purged from him too.

Mr. Graves was angry, and then he wasn’t. He pushed it down, just like Credence did. That didn’t make any sense either.

Mr. Graves offered him another sip of the shining blue liquid. Credence accepted it gratefully, because that, at least, made sense. Mr. Grindelwald had brought him here to conceive Mr. Graves’ child. The shining blue liquid helped with that.

If the orange juice was liquid summer and the little bottle from supper was liquid spring, then the shining blue liquid was probably drinkable starlight. Credence had never tried chocolate, but he imagined it tasted the way the shining blue liquid did: delicious and a little bit dark. It lit him up from the inside out, like fireflies in June. He liked it.

Credence had a much better idea of what he wanted, this time.

He pressed his mouth to Mr. Graves’ and kissed him. Mr. Graves tasted like liquid starlight, and Credence chased the taste of it, licking shamelessly into Mr. Graves’ mouth in an indecent clash of tongues and teeth. He wanted more starlight and more Mr. Graves, wanted the way Mr. Graves made his body feel alight with pleasure. He wanted the fullness of Mr. Graves inside of him, his body rendered a fertile field for Mr. Graves’ plowing.

“Please,” he begged. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was asking for, but he was certain Mr. Graves would give it to him.

“Hush,” Mr. Graves murmured, pressing him back against the narrow cot and unbuckling Credence’s trousers. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.” He shoved Credence’s trousers and the rest of his union suit down, swearing when they got tangled up in Credence’s shoes. Credence almost laughed at the face he made, like he couldn’t believe that mere _shoes_ would dare to stand between him and what he wanted. 

“Are you laughing at me?” Mr. Graves asked, stretching out over him. “You are. Little minx.” He kissed Credence again, to show he wasn’t mad.

Credence thought, at any other point in time, if he’d been naked while Mr. Graves was fully clothed, he would have felt vulnerable and ashamed of his own nudity. But under the influence of liquid starlight, he _liked_ it, because he could fist his hands in Mr. Graves’ lapels and just hold on for another kiss that felt like it was searing the flesh from his bones. 

It wasn’t enough, though. He wanted to feel Mr. Graves’ skin under his hands. Credence tugged at Mr. Graves’ lapels.

“Careful, lovely,” Mr. Graves said, nipping his mouth admonishingly. “This was expensive, once.” He pulled back – which wasn’t what Credence wanted – just long enough to unbutton his waistcoat and fling it across the cell.

“You wear too many layers,” Credence said, plaintive.

“I wear them well,” said Mr. Graves.

Credence hummed his agreement. He tried to help Mr. Graves unbutton his shirt while they kissed. They both got in one another’s way more often than not, but Credence liked that too. It was fun.

The shirt went flying after the waistcoat, and so did Mr. Graves’ trousers and union suit. Credence remembered to slide his shoes off before attacking Mr. Graves’ trousers, but only just. At last, Mr. Graves was totally, gloriously naked.

He was totally, gloriously shameless about it, too.

“Like what you see?” he asked, stroking where he was hard and masculine and leaking desire.

Credence squirmed. 

“Tell me,” Mr. Graves commanded, wrapping one big hand around Credence’s cock. It was almost too good to endure. Credence was certain he would explode from the pressure and the pleasure of it.

“Yes,” Credence whispered, half-ashamed to admit his sins aloud and half-glorying in them. “You’re gorgeous.” He hadn’t gotten a good look at Mr. Graves, last time. It was hard to imagine that he’d fit _that_ inside him, but nothing seemed impossible, now that he’d drunk of starlight and touched creation itself.

Credence felt a sudden slickness between his legs and recognized it as the spell Mr. Graves used to make things easier. He let his legs fall apart, holding himself open for Mr. Graves’ fingers.

Mr. Graves didn’t disappoint. He pressed one finger in, aiming for the places that made Credence writhe with pleasure so sweet it was almost agony. Two fingers was a strange, delightful stretch. He had very big fingers, Mr. Graves. Credence could feel him spread them apart, making way for Mr. Graves to fit his cock inside of him.

“Please,” he begged, because he wanted it. He wanted Mr. Graves to plow his fields. He wanted the child Mr. Grindelwald had foreseen. _“Please.”_

“Almost,” Mr. Graves said, pushing a third finger inside of him. Credence keened around it, because it was _so much_ and simultaneously not enough. “I’ve got you, I promise. Just a little bit longer.” He curled his fingers against the place inside that made everything fall away in a haze of pleasure and kept stroking Credence’s cock. 

It was too much. Credence shouted and spilled over Mr. Graves’ hand, breathless and profane.

“There you are,” Mr. Graves said, kissing Credence’s sweaty forehead. He pulled his fingers free and Credence whined at the loss.

“I want – I want to feel you,” he said, shocked by his own wanton daring. “Inside me.”

“You will,” Mr. Graves said. “That was just to take the edge off.” He kissed his way down Credence’s chest, pausing to lap up the spend like a cat with cream. Credence wondered if Mr. Graves was going to put his mouth on him again.

Mr. Graves did, pausing to nip playfully at Credence’s hip, first. He pushed his fingers back into Credence as he did, making Credence’s whole body seize up at the sudden rush of joy. It was like being hit by lightning, over and over and over again. He hadn’t finished coming down from his last peak, and found himself rising again.

Credence ground down against Mr. Graves’ fingers, craving the fullness that came from having Mr. Graves inside of him. “Please,” he said. “I want you.”

“You have me,” Mr. Graves told him, pushing in. He was careful and slow and Credence wanted to cry at how safe he felt, how loved. 

It wasn’t real. Credence _knew_ it wasn’t real, but it was hard to remember that when Mr. Graves treated him with such care. Mr. Graves kissed him, once he was all the way inside, his mouth salty-bitter. Credence realized he could taste himself in Mr. Graves’ mouth, and felt himself flush red all over at how much he liked the thought. He wound his arms around Mr. Graves’ broad back and held on tight when Mr. Graves started to move, furrowing into him.

Credence pressed his face against Mr. Graves’ chest and tried to stifle his cries. He’d learned not to cry out when Ma hit him, but this was something different. He couldn’t contain how good he felt.

“None of that, now,” Mr. Graves chided. “Let me hear you, lovely. Let me hear how good I make you feel.”

Oh, God. Credence cried out on the next stroke in, a little louder this time. It was shameful, or maybe shameless, but Credence didn’t care. He’d have done anything, if it was what Mr. Graves wanted.

“It feels good, having you inside of me,” Credence told him. “Big, and full, and – oh! And _good.”_

“Fuck,” said Mr. Graves, sounding a little stunned. He drove in hard, harder than he had before, and the rush of liquid heat inside made Credence clench down tight around him and shatter into ecstasy. Mr. Graves laughed as he kissed him, slumping down to cover Credence’s body with his own. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

Credence felt alarm rising up beneath the pleasant lassitude. It was hard to think, with Mr. Graves still inside him and pressing him down against the cot, keeping him safe. He couldn’t tell if Mr. Graves was displeased, and he didn’t like that.

“How delightful,” Mr. Graves said. He levered himself up and got them separated, which was probably Credence’s least favorite part of the whole process. 

Credence blinked, startled by the unexpected praise.

So, not displeased then.

“Rest up,” Mr. Graves told him. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Against what?” Credence asked. It hadn’t occurred to him to ask, last time. 

“Everything,” Mr. Graves promised. “Anything that might bring you harm, including our captor. Get some sleep. I’ll keep you safe.”

Nowhere was safe. Not from Ma, or Mr. Grindelwald. 

Credence cuddled into Mr. Graves’ side and let himself believe that he could be safe, just for tonight.

 

*

 

Graves dozed lightly, keeping watch the way he’d learned to during the war. He didn’t think Grindelwald would try and take Credence back before dawn. Maybe he could convince Grindelwald to feed Credence again; Merlin and Morgana knew the boy needed feeding up. 

Grindelwald hadn’t bothered to vanish the remains of Credence’s supper. Of the myriad tortures Grindelwald had subjected him to, having perfectly good food going to waste just out of reach was more petty than anything else. He sighed and told himself not to think about it. Thinking about being hungry would only make it worse. He’d been hungry before. He’d endured it then, and he could endure it now, as long as he remembered to think of something else.

Graves considered the boy in his arms instead. Credence really was lovely; it hadn’t just been the desiderata that made him think so. The contrast of dark hair and pale skin was a feast for the senses. Graves wanted to take Credence to his tailor and get him outfitted in proper, well-fitting clothes. Clean cotton shirts that weren’t practically threadbare, silk-lined waistcoats and jackets, trousers that flattered the shape of his ass and those long, long legs. He’d be devastating.

He _was_ devastating. And very good at flattering a man’s ego, for someone who had probably been an innocent a week ago. Part of it might have been the desiderata, but Graves thought some of Credence’s pleasure could be attributed to his own skill.

But the eager, wanton _joy_ Credence took from the act? That was all Credence. 

Graves had expected him to be shy, given that he seemed to believe sex between men was some sort of sin. Graves could have dealt with shy. Instead, he’d gotten a joyous, gorgeous nymph who delighted in being touched. Credence was clearly unpracticed, but his innocence only made him more appealing. It made Graves want to keep him, to make sure no one but him experienced the breathless wonder Credence took from sex; the only one to teach him.

If Credence had actually been his lover and not … whatever they were to one another, Graves would have never let him go. He was a possessive bastard, always had been. He didn’t like letting go of the things he’d claimed – his home, the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, his place at Seraphina’s right hand.

He tended to be worse about the people he considered his – Seraphina, his team, his protégés. He’d have died for Seraphina and gone to war for his team. He was generally worst where his protégés were concerned, because they were the closest thing to children he’d ever expected to have – his legacy, at least until one of his sister’s children was old enough to join MACUSA. He would have ripped the world apart for them, just like he would have for his niece and his nephews.

His lovers were owed more than just his protection. If Credence was actually his lover, Graves would have taught him anything he wanted to know about the pleasure two people could share, taking care that he learned only the good. He would have done his best to _earn_ the way Credence clung to him during sex, like Graves was the only solid, sure thing in the world he could anchor himself on. He’d have worshiped Credence nightly, except when a case kept him working late, wringing orgasms out of Credence until Credence was breathless and trembling and deliciously oversensitized.

Worse still, he wanted to. Graves liked the way Credence tried to muffle his startled, pleased cries against his skin, and how gratifyingly noisy Credence got when he wanted to hear him. He wanted to experiment, until he knew what the pitch and volume of each delicious sound meant, to pull those noises together like a symphony.

Graves wanted the kindness of his heart and his joyful wonder. He wanted the hot, tight clutch of Credence’s body and the careful sweetness of his kisses. 

You’re a sentimental idiot, he told himself. He’d met Credence all of twice now. Admittedly, those had been high energy and somewhat emotional circumstances, between the sex and the torture and Gellert fucking Grindelwald. But that was no reason to get _attached_ to someone he barely knew, except for all the ways he knew Credence intimately.

It’s the desiderata, he reasoned. Except he’d mastered that, hadn’t he? He’d shoved down what the desiderata made him want to do and done what he wanted instead. He’d been careful and kind and he had made love to Credence the way that men did, rather than the mindless animal Grindelwald wanted.

Maybe it was a wartime bond. People who’d been through extraordinary circumstances together tended to form bonds that weren’t easily broken. Graves hadn’t seen Theseus or Merak or Harry or Liam since that pub in Whitehall eight years ago, two weeks that felt like two heartbeats after the war was officially over. They’d toasted the ones who were missing, dead but not forgotten, and he’d shipped home and left them to rebuild theirs. If any of them had turned up on his doorstep asking for help, Graves would’ve given it without a second thought. He’d have fallen into step to fight beside them once more, because that was the kind of bond they had.

That was … Not exactly the sort of bond he had with Credence.

Graves abandoned his attempts to sugarcoat the matter. He wanted Credence. Credence was lovely and joyful and Graves _wanted_ him badly enough that his cock roused with interest just _thinking_ about it, because he was a terrible human being.

“Fuck,” he said. “Percival Graves, you’re an ass.” It didn’t have quite the same sting as when his sister Dindrane said it, but it got the point across.

“Mr. Graves?” Credence asked, sleepy and confused.

No, really, he reminded himself. _A terrible human being._

“Just … talking to myself,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

Credence shifted, accidentally pushing up against Graves’ half-erect cock. He could hardly miss it, pressed close together as they were. “What – Oh,” he said, still sleepy but no longer confused. “You’re. Um.” He blinked, dark lashes curving down to kiss his cheeks. “Can I … is it alright if I touch you?”

Merlin and Morgana have mercy. Graves ought to say no. He knew that, and yet –

“If you want to.”

He should put an end to this. He should move Credence’s hand anywhere but on his cock and tell the boy to go back to sleep. He couldn’t blame the desiderata for this, because there was none in either of their systems. This wasn’t the sort of thing either of them could come back from.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to. Grindelwald had taken everything, but he didn’t get to take this, too. He didn’t get to take the act of love, freely offered and freely given.

Graves wrapped his hand around Credence’s, showing Credence the way he liked to be touched by a lover. He tugged Credence down for a kiss, once Credence found the rhythm he liked. He was too old to let himself believe in fantasies – that Credence wanted him, that this was his bed and not his prison, that Credence was the lover he’d wooed and won – but he ached with how badly he wanted to.

“Come here,” Graves said, hauling Credence on top of him, lining their cocks up and drinking in the startled, pleased sound Credence made. He tangled his fingers with Credence’s, showing him how to bring them both pleasure. “Like this, darling. Look at how good you make me feel.”

“You make me feel good too,” Credence said, almost shyly. “Can you …” He trailed off, rocking his hips against Graves’ pelvis to convey what he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Graves had the determination and the will to master wandless spellcasting, but his famed willpower was not quite good enough to say no to Credence.

“You’ll be sore, tomorrow,” he warned.

“Good,” Credence said, surprisingly fierce. “Ma’s going to belt me, anyway. I’d rather be sore and remember something _good.”_

“Then let me make it good,” Graves said, concentrating on the lubricating spells. It had only been a couple of hours since he’d taken Credence; he wasn’t worried about getting Credence open, not with the faint traces of his come still leaking from Credence’s thighs. Credence gasped, thrusting against Graves’ cock with a moan. “Come here,” Graves said, guiding Credence in place on top of him. “There you go.”

“Mr. Graves?” Credence asked, half-aroused and half-unsure, hovering over Graves’ cock.

Graves tugged him down, groaning at how good it felt to be back inside where Credence was slick and tight and hot. “It’ll be easier, like this,” he said. “You can control how fast and deep you want me. You’ll still be sore tomorrow, but it won’t be quite so bad.”

“Oh,” Credence gasped. He rose up, just a little, and dropped down harder than Graves thought he meant to. It had to hurt, pain blossoming rather than pleasure, except then Credence did it again. 

“Fuck,” Graves said. “Doesn’t that hurt?”

Credence braced his hands on Graves’ shoulders. “Yes,” he said, dark eyes alight. “But I want it to. I want to remember that it’s a _good_ hurt, and not a bad one.”

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” Graves breathed, tugging Credence down until he could press stinging kisses against his mouth. “You’ll be the death of me.” He rocked into Credence and kissed him until both of their lips were swollen and tender and red.

“Touch me,” Credence begged. “Please, Mr. Graves. I need, I need –”

“I’ve got you, darling,” Graves soothed, wrapping his hand around Credence’s cock and mouthing kisses against his neck, his shoulder, his chest. “All you need to do is let go and let me catch you.”

Credence collapsed against him, coming with a breathless sigh. He went excruciatingly tight around Graves’ cock as he came, wrenching the orgasm out of him with a wordless snarl.

Graves rolled Credence underneath him, where he could keep Credence safe from harm. “Got you,” he said, teasing.

Credence hummed in wordless agreement, pleased.

“My darling,” Graves murmured, pressing kisses against Credence’s pulse. “Kind and lovely and _mine.”_ Somewhere outside of his primitive hindbrain, Graves was fairly certain he was going to regret this tomorrow, or at least have second thoughts. But it was hard to focus on that now, when he was sated and pleased and still inside of his lover.

He hadn’t counted on his stomach ruining the moment by grumbling loudly.

“Oh,” said Credence, squirming free. “Here,” he said, catching hold of his discarded jacket and coming up with the sandwich he’d tucked away earlier.

“I thought this was for your sister,” Graves said, resisting the urge to tear into it.

“Modesty’s not little enough to believe anyone would give _me_ steak or bread that nice,” Credence said, with that terrible matter-of-factness. “And Mr. Grindelwald can’t object if he doesn’t know it’s for you.”

“You _are_ full of surprises,” Graves said, sinking his teeth into the first real food he’d had in weeks. He offered up bites of it for Credence to eat, the primal animal part of him sated when Credence accepted. The meat and bread didn’t last long, but it took the edge off his hunger. 

The awful No-Maj woman hadn’t broken him. Maybe Grindelwald couldn’t, either.

Kindness was its own kind of magic. Even if Credence wasn’t whatever Grindelwald thought he was, Graves was still going to show him every wonder the wizarding world had to offer. He’d get an exemption for Rappaport’s Law and deal with the resulting scandal. It would be worth it. Credence deserved nothing less.

“Not so stupid after all,” he teased. “Are you sure you ought to be slumming it here with someone as stupid as me?”

Credence flinched. “I’m sorry,” he said, voice low. “I know it’s not much.”

“What? Oh, fuck. I didn’t mean – I was teasing,” he said, except that didn’t help. If anything, the explanation made things worse. Graves mentally cursed himself for being an absolutely, unredeemable useless ass – that mental voice was all Dindrane, and at Howler volume, too – and told himself to man up. “I was trying to flirt with you.”

“Flirt?” Credence said. “With ... me?” 

The lengthy pauses in between all three words suggested Credence was having trouble connecting them in a sentence. As though he couldn’t imagine using those words together, which was just fucking criminal. As sweet as he was, Credence ought to have had his pick of suitors. Men and women closer to his own age, people who would be able to say the right thing when it mattered and not shell shock him with a careless word.

“I’m a bit out of practice,” Graves admitted. And possibly he’d never been very good at it in the first place. Between his name, his power and his looks, companionship had never been hard to find. Or it hadn’t been, back when he’d been one of MACUSA’s twin rising stars. As Director of Magical Security, he supposed the view from the top was a bit lonely. He hadn’t minded. The last thing he wanted to do was give the appearance of favoritism, or risk abusing his position. He could satisfy his needs well enough by himself, thank you very much.

Credence still looked stunned, and maybe a little bit like he thought Graves was making fun of him.

“Very out of practice,” Graves amended.

“Why?” Credence blurted.

“Because you’re lovely and clever and kind and I wanted to,” Graves said. They were veering dangerously close to Healer-Legilimens territory again. He was not qualified to have this conversation. He was much better at deflecting people’s attempts to kill him. He would’ve welcomed one of Grindelwald’s, right at that moment.

“I’m not,” said Credence.

“You are.” 

“No, I’m _not,”_ Credence said.

The empty bottle of Felix Fecundus sitting on the supper table shattered. 

Credence froze at the sound of breaking glass. 

Graves blinked, because he hadn’t lost control of his magic like that since he was four years old. “Credence?” he asked.

“I didn’t,” Credence blurted, desperate. “I swear, I didn’t. I’ll clean it up. Please, don’t –” He lapsed into terrified silence, shaking in anticipation of being hurt.

_Please, don’t hurt me,_ Graves finished for him. He suddenly had a very clear idea of why Credence had enormous reserves of magical ability and no way to use them. He was too afraid to. Wizarding children were taught to embrace their magic, to revel in their birthright, but the Barebone woman had only ever taught Credence fear and pain.

“Oh, my darling,” Graves said, tugging Credence into the shelter of his arms. “You don’t need to be afraid of me. I’m not angry with you. I’m _glad.”_ He held on, trying to anchor Credence through the tremors that threatened to shake him apart. “That was magic, what you just did.”

“I didn’t,” Credence insisted. “I can’t do magic. Mr. Grindelwald said so.”

“Grindelwald doesn’t know everything,” Graves said. “And you can. You were just never taught how. That was magic. _You’re_ magic. You’re a wizard, Credence.”

 

*

 

Grindelwald didn’t notice the broken bottle. He just vanished the remains of supper when he came down the stairs to fetch Credence the next morning, table and all. There was a brief hitch in his stride when he noticed that both of them were awake and dressed.

“Percival,” he said warningly.

“What?” Graves snapped back. “I did what you wanted. Or did you want to check the sheets?”

Grindelwald tsked. “Don’t be vulgar.”

Graves shrugged. “It’s a European tradition, not an American one.” 

Inspecting the bedsheets for proof of consummation – and, more importantly, proof of the bride’s virtue – was an old tradition, generally forgotten by all but the most archaic of sticklers and people who wanted to humiliate one or both newlyweds. It was a carryover from the time when the best way to produce a trueborn, pureblood heir was to marry a virgin bride. Wizarding Europe had embraced worse atrocities, in the name of bloodline purity. Wizarding America had never bothered. What did bloodlines matter, so long as your heir was strong? Bloodlines didn’t guarantee strong magic, and strong magic was what history remembered.

_“Dilaceratio,”_ said Grindelwald.

Graves shoved Credence down, twisting to take the bulk of the lacerating curse on his left shoulder and forearm, which he’d thrown over his head like a shield. He swore when a stray bit hit his face, cutting a thin line against his cheek all the way down to the bone.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he bellowed, the temper that entire branches of MACUSA only spoke of in hushed tones finally bursting free. “I thought you wanted the boy to birth your general! Why the fuck would you toss curses capable of _slicing people open_ anywhere near him?”

Grindelwald stilled, mismatched eyes alight. “Why Percival,” he purred. “You sound almost like you _believe.”_

Fuck. He was a fucking idiot. He was a fucking idiot and he was making _rookie mistakes._ He _never_ made rookie mistakes. He couldn’t afford to, not even when he _was_ a rookie, because he was a Graves and Seraphina’s rival and his reputation preceded him everywhere he went and had ever since he was ten years old.

“I _don’t,”_ he hissed. “But it doesn’t matter what I think, does it? It only matters what you think, and since _you_ think breeding the two of us will produce your prophesied general, maybe you ought to be a little more careful not to break your toys!”

“You _do,”_ Grindelwald crowed, sounding delighted. “You forget, I know your tells, Percival. I couldn’t be you if I didn’t, and you _believe._ You’re _worried_ about the boy, about _your child,_ and you’ll do anything to keep them safe.”

“If you touch him, I’ll fucking kill you,” Graves snarled. “I’ll break your neck myself, and I won’t use magic to do it, either. You’ll die like a No-Maj and no one will remember your name.”

“You think you sired a child on Credence last night,” Grindelwald said. “And now you’re worried about what I could do to both of them.” His grin widened. _“Good._ You should be scared. Everything I’ve done to you, I can do to them.”

“Except you _won’t,”_ Graves shot back. “Because the androgenesis spells are delicate, especially in the first trimester. You won’t risk either of them. Which means right now, the only one you can touch is _me.”_ He bared his teeth in a defiant grin. _“Do your worst.”_

Grindelwald laughed. “Do you want to know what the worst thing I could do to you is?”

“Nothing I can’t endure,” said Graves.

“Fool,” said Grindelwald. He sounded _fond._ It was obscene, worse than the overly familiar way he kept using Graves’ given name and the way he liked to wear Graves’ own face when he tortured him. He reached out and yanked Credence out of Graves’ protective hold with a summoning spell better used for objects than people. “The worst thing I can do to you is take Credence and let you wonder what I’m doing to him. I could hurt him,” he said, “and you would never know, much less be able to do anything about it.”

“Don’t,” Graves snarled, a wounded animal sound. It didn’t do any good. Grindelwald took hold of Credence’s shoulder and Apparated them both away.

Graves waited. One heartbeat, then two. He counted three hundred when he finally dared to unclench his fists.

That had gone much, much better than he expected it to. Not entirely according to plan, but close enough. 

His injured shoulder and forearm throbbed, reminding him that fainting from blood loss wasn’t off the table just yet. Graves yanked his tattered shirt off – he hadn’t bothered with his jacket, since he’d expected something like this – and tore it into strips. Wandless magic required concentration as well as will, and he wanted Grindelwald to think that his nerves were so badly damaged by the very possibility of fatherhood that he was incapable of using the skills he was famous for. That meant healing the No-Maj way: slow and painful and marked with scars.

If it kept Credence and his potential child safe, then Graves would wear the scars like badges of honor.

The child had always been just that: a potential, of no more consequence than the possibility of being tortured. It had been easier to accept when the odds had worked in his favor. The androgenesis spells were delicate; it took two parents with magical ability to sustain life where none should have been able to grow. One to bring and one to bear, or so the saying went. The wizard who sired the child would sustain it, touch that bright spark in his lover’s womb and offer up his magic to keep it there, sheltered and safe. The wizard who bore the child would nurture it, using his magic to create a safe haven, for all that his body hadn’t been built with such things in mind. Unless the wizard who carried the child was unnaturally, phenomenally strong, it took both wizards working in tandem to produce a child. A child born of two wizards was, in a sense, the purest form of an offering to magic it was possible to produce. Graves had made no such offering to magic, and Credence didn’t know how, assuming he had enough magic to do so at all. The possibility that Graves might actually get Credence with child was remote – one in a thousand, perhaps.

Graves had made no such offering. It hadn’t occurred to him until now to wonder if Grindelwald had. It wasn’t unheard of, for a witch or a wizard to donate their strength to aid in the attempt of a much wanted child. It helped, if the person offering up their magic was a relative of the child-to-be, but there were older, darker spells that didn’t require that sort of connection.

Those spells required blood, rather than a blood relation.

Graves had been reasonably certain that Credence was a No-Maj. If he’d had magic, he would’ve been taken from the awful Barebone woman and trained at Ilvermorny, as was his birthright. He hadn’t, so he was probably a No-Maj. No-Maj men couldn’t bear children; they didn’t have enough magic to sustain a pregnancy. Squibs didn’t either. If the sire was especially strong, it was possible for a squib to get pregnant, although only one recorded case in about fifty had survived the attempt and born a living child. Odds that terrible kept anyone with sense from risking it.

But if Credence _was_ a wizard – which he clearly was – then it was entirely possible for Graves to get him with child. Which meant that the improbable possibility of a child had become a horrifically probable risk.

Graves would die before he let any child of his be used by the likes of Gellert Grindelwald. 

Escape had just become a necessity, and it was attached to a countdown clock. Five months. Six at the absolute maximum. The androgenesis spells required monitoring by a qualified healer in the last trimester, for the health of the carrier and the child both.

It would be better, perhaps, if the child never came to be. If it died from lack of care. 

Graves pushed that thought aside. He might not have wanted the child, but he’d be damned if he didn’t give it every chance to thrive. The child, out of everyone involved in this stupid fucking mess, was entirely blameless.

Well. The child and Credence. Graves had a responsibility to them both, now.

He sat down on his cot and closed his eyes. Grindelwald’s anti-magic wards suppressed his abilities. He could only manage the simplest of spells; the charms every wizarding child grew up knowing. The other spells he could manage were the ones he’d mastered with wandless magic, the ones he’d practiced over and over and over again, until he knew the shape of the magic in them in his mind and could cast them practically without conscious thought. The shield charm and the one to handcuff a suspect and keep him from Apparating. _Accio_ and _stupefy_ and _expelliarmus._

He was going to have to do better, to protect Credence and the child.

Graves reached for the familiar core of his own power, muted behind Grindelwald’s wards. He let rage and fear make it bright and thought about one of Grindelwald’s go-to favorites. He waited until he had the shape of it in his mind and then he said, _“Dilaceratio.”_

Nothing happened.

Graves put the shape together again, feeling the sharpness of it, the sting. _“Dilaceratio.”_

Nothing happened that time, either. But it was a different sort of nothing. Graves felt his lips pull back in a predatory smirk.

Mastering wandless, wordless magic took practice and power. You couldn’t get discouraged when nothing happened the first time you tried, or even the five hundredth. You had to be willing to work for it, to believe that you could bend the universe to your will.

Graves let the power build up, the way he would have if he were casting a powerful, difficult spell, and then he cast it again. And again. And again.

He could do this for however long it took to get it right.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The information about the original twelve American Aurors and the Scourers comes from the Harry Potter wiki. I tried to paraphrase as best I could, but if anyone thinks I need to tweak it a bit to avoid gross acts of copyright infringement, I'm happy to do so.

Ma struck him across the face when she saw him. “You stupid, sinful boy!” she cried. “I was worried sick about you.”

“I’m sorry, Ma,” Credence said, swallowing down the familiar anger at being hit. 

“I’ll deal with you later,” she said. “Go do your chores. We’ve enough to do without you shirking.”

“Yes, Ma,” Credence said, and went to do his chores. Ordinarily, the words _I’ll deal with you later_ would’ve put a sick, cramped feeling in his belly. They would’ve hovered over him all day like a cloud of dark tidings.

It was hard to care about that today. Mr. Graves was right; he _was_ sore, his body protesting the unexpected use. But Credence was right too, because he _liked_ it. It was a reminder of everything he’d done last night. Of how careful and kind Mr. Graves was with him, like Credence was something precious.

Like Credence was his lover.

That would never happen, Credence knew. Mr. Graves could probably have his pick of anyone, men and women both. He probably wouldn’t even look twice at scrawny, ugly Credence Barebone without Mr. Grindelwald and the liquid starlight burning through his veins to make him. But what did that matter? He had, even if it wasn’t real. Mr. Graves had been attentive to Credence’s pleasure, taking care to make it good, to make Credence feel safe and loved and sheltered in his arms. Even if Credence wasn’t with child, and if he never had anything quite that good ever again, he could still hold onto that. He’d still have the memory of Mr. Graves’ kindness, and maybe that could be enough.

He held onto that while Ma beat him, thinking about the ten commandments and sin. The Bible said, _thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house, or his wife or his possessions._ And Credence didn’t, but he did covet Mr. Graves.

Coveting one’s neighbor was probably a sin more terrible than coveting his things, so Credence carefully recited a dozen Our Father’s before he went to sleep. He didn’t think it would do much good, seeing as he hadn’t actually repented. But he wanted God to know he was sorry for his sinful nature. Maybe God, in His mercy, would spare Credence’s child.

Mr. Graves’ child.

Credence curled up in bed, careful to keep as much pressure as he could off his back, and let himself imagine what Mr. Graves’ child would be like. He imagined a little boy, with dark hair and eyes he could have gotten from either of his parents, who carried himself with a confidence that was all Mr. Graves. Mr. Graves’ son would be magical, just like Mr. Graves. (Just like him, if what Mr. Graves said was true, but Credence couldn’t – _would not_ – believe that. He’d believed it once, and look where that had got him. He knew better, this time.)

His son would be strong, and magical, and no one – not even Ma – would ever be allowed to hurt him. Credence would make sure of that. He didn’t know how he was going to do it, but he would.

 

*

 

Ma was watching him again. Credence got used to the feel of her eyes on his back, pale and cold, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of sin. She was waiting for him to try and slip away again.

Credence wasn’t sure who would win, in a confrontation between Ma and Mr. Grindelwald – probably Mr. Grindelwald, who had magic where Ma only had righteous fury – but he didn’t want to put that to the test. He stuck close to the church and wherever Ma’s ministry took her, and he didn’t try to sneak away to meet Mr. Grindelwald. He thought he caught a glimpse of Mr. Grindelwald pretending to be Mr. Graves, once or twice, but he was careful to avoid Mr. Grindelwald’s gaze. 

Mr. Grindelwald expected his presence to act as a summons. Credence wanted to obey, he did, but he was more afraid of what Ma might do than what Mr. Grindelwald would. He knew what Ma would do.

He managed to slip away to the alley two weeks later. Mr. Grindelwald was practically seething with impatience, and it looked ugly on Mr. Graves’ handsome face.

“I don’t,” he hissed, “like being kept waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence whispered. “Ma was watching me. I couldn’t get away.”

Mr. Grindelwald struck him across the face, a heavy backhand that split Credence’s lip. Credence cringed back, raising his arms to shield his face in anticipation of being hit again.

“Stop sniveling,” Mr. Grindelwald snapped, raising his wand. _“Diagnoskien.”_

Credence flinched away from Mr. Grindelwald’s magic. He braced himself for the next hit, but Mr. Grindelwald started _smiling._

That looked wrong too. He didn’t smile like Mr. Graves did, like a wolf baring his teeth. He smiled the way rich men did, when the world had rearranged itself to suit their whims. Like he expected nothing but total satisfaction.

Mr. Grindelwald grabbed Credence’s arm and used magic to drag him to the house where Mr. Graves was. The sense of disorientation was worse this time, bile rising up uncontrollably. If there had been anything in his stomach to throw up, Credence would have emptied his belly, but there wasn’t. 

“It seems congratulations are in order,” Mr. Grindelwald purred. He shoved Credence through the magical barrier. “You’re going to be a father, Percival.”

Mr. Graves looked rather more battered than he had, the last two times Credence saw him. Credence wondered if Mr. Grindelwald had hurt him because Credence hadn’t obeyed. His voice, when he spoke, was low and raspy, like he’d been screaming.

“What, no gigglewater and cigars? I believe that’s customary for this sort of announcement.”

“What an excellent idea,” Mr. Grindelwald said, his good cheer undaunted by Mr. Graves’ sarcasm. “I believe that’s exactly how I’ll celebrate.”

“You could let Credence celebrate with dinner,” Mr. Graves pointed out.

Mr. Grindelwald frowned at him. “What is this preoccupation you’ve got with feeding him? It’s very odd.”

“I am well known for my tendency to be a mother hen,” Mr. Graves deadpanned.

“Actually, I think that honor goes to Collins,” Mr. Grindelwald said, all silky menace. “Shall I send him your regards?”

Mr. Graves growled, low in his throat, but he stopped trying to bait Mr. Grindelwald. “The healthier the carrier, the healthier the child. It’s in your best interests long term to feed Credence up a little.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Mr. Grindelwald said, like it didn’t matter to him at all. He waved his hand and two bowls of soup and bread appeared in Mr. Graves’ cell. “For your cooperation,” he said, when Mr. Graves gave the second bowl a suspicious look. “If the child fails to thrive, it won’t be you I’ll hurt,” he said, heading back up the stairs. “Don’t try and call my bluff on this, Percival. It won’t end well for your team.”

Mr. Graves clenched his hands into fists. “You bastard,” he hissed.

“Collins has a wife, doesn’t he? Sweet little thing. It would be such a shame if anything happened to dear Dorothy. I believe they’re also trying for their first child. That would be fortuitous, wouldn’t it? My general will need trusted lieutenants, and who better than the offspring of the ones his father trusted?”

“You’ve made your point,” Mr. Graves snarled.

Mr. Grindelwald’s only answer was to shut the basement door, mocking laughter trailing clearly behind him.

Mr. Graves growled. For a second, Credence thought he might hit something, but then Mr. Graves took a deep breath and relaxed his fists. 

“Hello, Credence,” he said kindly, like they were old friends meeting one another in the park. “How are you?”

Credence stared at him. How did he even begin to answer that question? He was with child. He was a man, and he was with child, and if Ma found out she’d beat it out of him and if she did that Credence wouldn’t be able to bear the loss. He _couldn’t._

Black spots darted across his vision. Credence realized he couldn’t breathe. He kept gasping for air and it wasn’t helping.

“Fuck,” said Mr. Graves, reaching out to cup Credence’s face in one hand. “It’s okay. You’re okay, I’ve got you. Just breathe with me, darling, alright? In and out, nice and slow, there’s a love. I’ve got you.” He kept up a soothing stream of nonsense until Credence’s breathing slowed into humiliated regularity.

“Sorry,” Credence said, resisting the urge to press his hot face against the curve of Mr. Graves’ shoulder and hide. “I’m fine. Just – stupid. I’m sorry.”

“You’re not stupid,” Mr. Graves said sharply. “Anyone would be overwhelmed, in your position. It was a stupid question, anyhow.” He pulled back, rubbing his thumb over Credence’s lip. “Did Grindelwald do this?” he asked.

“He didn’t like that I kept him waiting,” Credence explained. “I couldn’t get away from Ma. She was watching.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Graves, healing his lip with another caress. “Let me see your back, please?”

“It’s nothing,” Credence said. 

“Please,” Mr. Graves said again, managing to make the word sound like _right now._ Mr. Graves could probably rival Ma, when it came to righteous conviction. He had the right voice for it, like thunder and the wrath of God.

Disobeying Ma when she sounded like that never ended well. He didn’t think Mr. Graves would hit him, but Credence wasn’t willing to risk it. He shed his jacket and shirt and the top part of his union suit and turned so Mr. Graves could see the after effects of Ma’s wrath.

Mr. Graves growled, low in his throat. But his hands were gentle when he brushed them over Credence’s skin, and Credence moaned at how good it felt, to be pain-free for the first time in two weeks.

“Better?” Mr. Graves asked, stepping away. He bent down to fetch one of the bowls of soup Mr. Grindelwald had left them. He tsked in irritation. “Stingy bastard. Still, it’s better than nothing.” He pressed the bowl into Credence’s hands. “Drink up.”

It was more of the rich, meaty soup from last time. There were potatoes and carrots in it, as well as real beef. Soup with real beef in it seemed like an impossible luxury to Credence.

Maybe wizards ate better than ordinary folk.

And maybe wizards ate with their hands, because there was no spoon.

Mr. Graves huffed a short bark of laughter when he saw Credence checking for one. “I’m not to be trusted with utensils,” he said. “I have an alarming tendency to try to use them as weapons.”

Credence wasn’t certain how much damage one person could do to another with a soup spoon, but he thought Mr. Graves might be able to do quite a bit.

He said grace over his soup and picked the vegetables out with his fingers, licking them clean in between bites and savoring the chunks of beef. 

“Is this from the Waldorf-Astoria?” he asked. Mr. Graves had mentioned that one of the chefs there was a wizard. Maybe that explained why wizarding food was so good. Maybe the food was magical too.

“My larder,” said Mr. Graves. “Soup is quick and easy. I usually keep a pot on. The cauldron of plenty charm isn’t hard.”

“It’s good,” Credence said, wondering what a cauldron of plenty charm was. If it was anything like what it sounded like, it was a miracle. It reminded Credence of the story of the loaves and the fishes, but that was surely blasphemy. Christ had worked a miracle to feed the multitude. Keeping a stew pot going was nothing compared to that.

He didn’t let himself wonder how many people Ma’s ministry could feed, if she’d had a charm like that. They could have offered the orphans _real food,_ rather than soup that was practically water.

Ma would likely see anything produced by such a charm as the devil’s communion. She’d never have permitted its use.

Mr. Graves tipped half the contents of his bowl into Credence’s, once Credence was done. “You need it more than I do,” he said, when Credence would’ve protested. “Eating for two, and all that.”

“I couldn’t,” Credence demurred. 

“Of course you can,” said Mr. Graves.

Credence looked down at his bowl. He ought to say no. He knew that. But he was hungry, and the soup was _so good._

“Please,” said Mr. Graves. “This is the only way I have to provide for you. Let me do this much, at least.”

It was a man’s duty to provide for his wife and children. Credence wasn’t Mr. Graves’ wife, but he was bearing Mr. Graves’ child, so it probably worked out to the same thing in the end.

And besides, the small, shameful part of himself reasoned, he liked that Mr. Graves wanted to look after him. It made him feel special and loved.

That was clearly a stupid thought. Mr. Graves was only worried about his future child. _Their_ child.

If Mr. Graves wanted to put their child first, Credence could hardly do any different. He dipped his fingers back into the soup bowl and ate a chunk of potato.

Something in Mr. Graves relaxed at the sight, the tension bleeding out of him. He waited until Credence had a second bite of carrot before he began to eat, savoring each bite like it was manna from heaven.

“May I?” Mr. Graves asked, once the soup was gone and the last dregs of it had been mopped up with bread and consumed. He gestured towards Credence’s belly, where their child grew. 

Credence thought about having Mr. Graves’ hands on his bare skin again and shivered. “Yes, please,” he said.

Mr. Graves pressed his right hand against Credence’s belly, spreading his fingers apart like a protective shield. Credence shied away from the feeling of unexpected magic.

“Sorry,” Mr. Graves said immediately, letting his hand fall away. “I was just saying hello.”

“It’s alright,” Credence told him. He took Mr. Graves’ hand and put it back on his belly where it belonged. “I was … you startled me, that’s all.”

He still flinched at the unfamiliar brush of Mr. Graves’ magic, because being touched with magic took some getting used to. He liked the feel of Mr. Graves’ magic better than Mr. Grindelwald’s. Mr. Grindelwald’s magic was sharp and cold, much like the man himself. Mr. Graves’ magic was warm and a little bit rough – kind of like Mr. Graves, Credence thought. Except Mr. Graves’ rough edges would never be used to hurt; they were there to protect.

Credence wasn’t sure why he was so certain of that. The realization rattled him; he didn’t know what to do with someone who wouldn’t hurt him. It was a little frightening, because he didn’t know what he’d done to deserve such care. What if he did something wrong and Mr. Graves turned on him? He didn’t think that Mr. Graves would, but he also didn’t know why he was so certain of that and thinking about that made the dark spots well up again.

Credence took in a shaky breath and made himself stop thinking about it. Mr. Graves was nothing like Ma, but everyone with power was basically the same. Everything would be fine, as long as they were happy.

Credence had no idea how to make Mr. Graves happy, but he knew where to start. He pressed forward, bracing himself on Mr. Graves’ broad shoulders, and kissed him.

 

*

 

Graves wasn’t entirely certain how he’d wound up with an armful of half-naked Credence; he was half convinced it was a hallucination of some sort, except Credence’s mouth tasted like beef stew and his primitive hindbrain was still howling _a child, a **child,** you fucking idiot._ His primitive hindbrain – and his rational forebrain, for that matter – had yet to stop screaming at him, ever since his spectacular failure to keep his dick in his pants while not under the influence of desiderata, but the taste of beef stew was an incongruous enough detail to convince him that this was, in fact, reality.

It didn’t explain why Credence was kissing him, though.

Graves pulled back, letting himself cup the base of Credence’s skull in one hand and skritch along the short hairs there in a way he knew Credence liked. “Hi,” he said, in case Credence had meant the kisses as some kind of greeting. He was fairly certain Credence hadn’t, but it did no harm to pretend.

“Hello, Mr. Graves,” Credence said, leaning into him. 

“I think,” Graves said carefully, trying not to spook Credence, “that you can probably call me Percival, if you want to.” And because Credence seemed uneasy when presented with choices, he added, “I’d like it if you did.”

“Oh,” said Credence. He licked his lips nervously. 

Graves wondered if he had any idea how appealing he looked when he did that. Probably not.

You are a terrible human being, he told himself. 

“Percival,” Credence said, shaping the unfamiliar syllables carefully.

“Yes,” Graves said, smiling. He liked it more than he’d expected to; the shape of his name in Credence’s mouth.

He’s not actually your lover, he reminded himself. He’s not bearing your child because he _wants_ to. Try to remember that.

“Hello, Percival,” Credence said, still careful.

If Credence had actually been his lover, Graves would have kissed him then. It would have been a stolen kiss, just because he could.

Credence wasn’t, though, and he didn’t dare risk it. Things between them were confused enough. He didn’t need to confuse matters any further.

“You must be cold,” he said, gesturing to Credence’s bare torso. “Would you like the blanket? It’s not much – a bit scratchy, to be honest – but it’s warm.”

“Oh,” Credence said, flushing red. Graves was interested to see that it went all the way down his pale torso. “No, I’m fine.” He buttoned up his union suit and his shirt like he was donning protective armor. He started to pull on his jacket and paused, looking Graves over. “Aren’t _you_ cold?” he asked. “Your shirt is ... ”

“Little better than rags?” Graves provided, since Credence was too polite to say so. “I used it for bandages, after Grindelwald’s little temper tantrum. I tried extending what was left, but the tailoring charms have never been my strong suit. That’s what my tailor’s for.”

Grindelwald had been amused. And smug, in ways that made Graves itch to punch him in the teeth. He’d liked that Graves seemed rattled by the possibility of impending fatherhood, and seeing Graves decked out in rags when Graves prided himself on being neatly turned out had to be the icing on the cake.

He’d get bored of it and provide Graves with proper clothes soon enough. He always did. Graves assumed he got some perverse kick out of demonstrating that he could not only make Graves ruin his wardrobe and degrade himself, but that he could do so repeatedly. It was probably meant to demoralize him, and if Graves had been as attached to his clothing as he pretended to be, it probably would’ve worked.

Graves had spent too much time fighting and bleeding and nearly dying to view his clothing as anything but an alternative to going naked. His suits were camouflage, nothing more. People expected the Director of Magical Security to look like a man of wealth and taste, so he’d always taken care to dress accordingly. 

Credence reached out, like he wanted to touch the cut on Graves’ cheekbone and didn’t quite dare to, which Graves was grateful for. After two weeks, it was scabbed over and sealed shut, but it still ached sometimes, and he didn’t want anyone poking at it.

“Why didn’t you heal it?” Credence asked.

Explaining that he was running a long con on the genocidal fanatic holding them both prisoner did not seem like a good idea, since Graves was fairly certain said genocidal fanatic had his cell under a number of surveillance spells. “Healing spells are tricky,” he said, which was true. “At least they are if you’re not some kind of healer prodigy.”

“Like Aelinor Bluebird?” Credence ventured.

“Exactly like,” Graves said, smiling at him. He hadn’t expected Credence to remember that he’d mentioned the Bluebird at all. “For the Bluebird, healing magic’s like … like breathing, I suppose. She doesn’t have to work for it. The rest of us do. To properly cast healing magic, you need to be able to focus. If you can’t focus,” he shrugged. “Then you get to heal just like anyone else.”

“You never have any trouble healing me,” Credence pointed out.

“You’re easy to focus on,” Graves said, unthinkingly honest.

Credence flushed red and ducked his head. “Why do you call her that?”

“What?”

 _“The_ Bluebird,” Credence clarified. “Bluebird’s her last name, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Graves acknowledged. “Calling her the Bluebird is a mark of respect. Mediwitches like Aelinor are rare. Her abilities are quite singular. Extraordinary, really. She could work for any hospital in the world, and people would pour dragots into her lap by the bucket to heal their ills, but she works for MACUSA instead, because she wants to be on the front lines, where her abilities will do some good. We’re lucky to have her. The least we can do is show that we honor her decision.”

“She must be very powerful,” Credence said. “Like you. Are you _the_ Graves, among wizards?”

Graves choked on a laugh at the thought. “Merlin and Morgana, no,” he said. “I don’t know that anyone with the Graves name qualifies for that title, except maybe old Gondulphus Graves. He was one of the Twelve, you know.”

Except, of course, Credence didn’t.

“What did Grindelwald tell you about wizarding history?” Graves asked, to cover up the awkward silence.

“Nothing,” Credence said, low and ashamed, like it was _his_ fault Grindelwald hadn’t seen fit to explain the finer points of wizarding America’s history to him. Grindelwald probably couldn’t even name all of the Twelve, much less explain why they were important. “Mr. Grindelwald is more interested in the future.”

“That’s because he’s an idiot,” Graves said cheerfully, imagining Grindelwald’s hiss of rage when his surveillance spells relayed _that_ little tidbit to him. “Those who remain ignorant of history are doomed to repeat it. Wizarding America’s roots aren’t as deep as wizarding Europe’s, but it still shapes who we are and what we hold dear.” He was careful to keep his voice gentle when he asked, “Would you like to hear about the Twelve? You’ll need to know our history, if you’re going to be a part of our world.”

Credence wavered. He had some odd hang up about believing that he could do magic. Possibly Grindelwald or the awful No-Maj woman had done more damage to him than Graves thought, but Graves was no Healer-Legilimens, to help him come to terms with the lies other people had fed him. He could only offer the truth. It was all he had.

Credence pressed a hand to his belly and settled onto Graves’ cot. “You could tell both of us,” he said, a little shy and a little not. Graves almost thought Credence was flirting with him, except he was fairly certain Credence didn’t know what flirtation looked like.

“I’d like that,” Graves said, ignoring what that hint of flirtation did to his libido. “Alright, so I imagine you already know about the Salem Witch Trials from a No-Maj – a Non-Magical, that is – perspective?”

Credence fisted one hand in the thin sheet and nodded.

"Right. Well, the story goes a bit differently, from our perspective,” Graves said, picking his words with care. Credence had been told, all his life, that the Salem Witch Trials were God’s work – a righteous thing. Graves didn’t think he believed it, since he hadn’t run away screaming at the first hint of magic, but he knew firsthand how hard it was to disregard the things you’d been told over and over again were true. Better to choose his words with care. “At that point in time, Wizarding America had no governing body. We were made up of too many different cultures, too many conflicting ideals. No one could agree on whether we owed our allegiance to the wizarding world, to our home nations, or to the new world we wanted to build. We were … less cautious, perhaps, than we should have been. It was naivete, I think, that made our wizarding ancestors so careless. A good number of them wanted to build a society where wizards and No-Maj’s could live together, like equals. A new Camelot for the New World.

“It didn’t work quite like they intended. The Witch Trials changed things. In Europe, they laugh at the Burning Times. They’ll tell you stories of witches and wizards who deliberately let themselves get caught, who cast charms that rendered the flames harmless. They won’t tell you anything about what happened to the No-Maj’s who were accused of being witches, or the squibs who had enough magic to see our world but not enough to stop what was done to them.

“In America, because our ancestors were less cautious about their magic than they should have been, the No-Maj’s who hunted us knew that it’s hard for us to cast spells if we’re disoriented. A bit of head trauma works just as well to disarm a wizard as it does anyone else. And if that failed to do the trick, well, that was what the Scourers were for, wasn’t it?”

"What’s a Scourer?” Credence asked. He pulled his feet up underneath him, looking faintly unsettled. Grindelwald had probably fed him pretty stories about the glories of the wizarding world; stories that fit with the narrative of wizarding superiority that Grindelwald was trying to construct. Doubtless Grindelwald had forgotten to mention that the truth behind those pretty stories was just like the rest of history, and full of grit and death and blood.

“A traitor,” Graves said bluntly. “There’s no other word for them. They were wizards, much like you or I, and they used their magical abilities to track other people down. They started out as bounty hunters, or so the stories go. If there was a bounty and your gold was good, wizard or No-Maj, the Scourers would bring them to you. Over time they became … corrupt. Their tactics changed. They started turning their own kind over to the No-Maj’s. 

“The original MACUSA was founded to keep our people safe. To stop the Scourers. In the aftermath of the Witch Trials, Josiah Jackson – the first president of MACUSA – recruited and trained the first American Aurors. He asked them to hunt down and stop the Scourers, to make sure the No-Maj’s couldn’t hurt us again, to keep our people safe by any means necessary – at the expense of their own lives, if it came to that. Twelve witches and wizards answered the call. Wilhelm Fischer, Theodard Fontaine, Gondulphus Graves, Robert Grimsditch, Mary Jauncey, Carlos Lopez, Mungo Macduff, Cormac O’Brien, Abraham Potter, Berthilde Roche, Helmut Weiss and Charity Wilkinson. Ten out of the Twelve paid for the safety of our people in blood. Gondulphus Graves died stopping the Scourer Corbin Mather from trafficking three young witches and wizards.

“Any descendant of the Twelve, including the one you carry, has the respect of Wizarding America for what the Twelve sacrificed. The Graves name is a bit more so, because there has always been a Graves in MACUSA, to ensure the safety of our people. When old Gondulphus died, his son Geriant joined MACUSA as its newest Auror. And that’s the way it’s been, ever since.”

It was possible, Graves realized, looking over at Credence’s pale face, that he could have started with a slightly prettier chapter wizarding history. He winced. He really was a fucking idiot sometimes.

He spread his hands apart apologetically. “It’s not a pretty story,” he said. “History often isn’t. But it’s ours.”

"Is that … is that what you expect our son to do?” Credence asked.

“What?” Graves asked, a bit stunned by the mention of _our son._

“Join MACUSA,” Credence said, careful not to stumble over the unfamiliar word. “Die to keep magical people safe.”

“Our people,” Graves corrected. “And … no. Of course not.” It was what every Graves was raised to do, of course, but he realized, suddenly, that he _didn’t_ want that. Not for _his_ son. His son would have more than a life of honorable service and sacrifice. His son would be _safe._ “No Graves serves MACUSA if they don’t want to. If they aren’t called to it. My sister Dindrane is a researcher for the Fisher Institute. They research new spells, refine magical techniques. It’s a good job, one worthy of the Graves name. She’s happy there.”

Arthur, Dindrane’s oldest, would probably follow Dindrane into the Fisher Institute. He had Graves’ own knack for wandless spellcasting, and a good head for magical theory. Lance was only eight, and it was anyone’s guess what he’d be. Right now he wanted to be a professional quidditch player, or a broom maker, or a movie star, or whatever else caught an eight year old’s fancy. He’d find his place by the time he graduated from Ilvermorny.

And as for Gwen …. Well. Gwen would probably join MACUSA, just like her Uncle Percival. She’d want to break every record Seraphina set. Knowing Gwen, she’d do it, too.

“That’s … that’s good,” Credence said, setting his jaw stubbornly. “I don’t want my son dying for Mr. Grindelwald’s war or yours.”

“I’m not fighting a war,” Graves protested.

Credence braced himself, like he expected Graves to hit him. But that didn’t stop him from meeting Graves’ eyes and asking, “Aren’t you?”

*

Credence had liked the idea of Mr. Graves – of _Percival,_ he corrected himself, secretly delighted by the familiarity – telling him about wizarding history, up until Percival started explaining it. Wizarding history … wasn’t what Credence had expected. He’d expected magic and wonder and the glories Mr. Grindelwald had hinted at. What he got was something a little too much like the Bible. It was a very Old Testament sort of story, full of righteous death and smiting.

Credence curled in on himself and tried not to focus on the way Percival seemed to think that there was nothing wrong with a righteous death. He sounded like Ma; like a martyr. Credence wanted to cling to him, to make him _promise_ that he wouldn’t do something so foolish, because he was _Percival_ and Credence needed him. _Their son_ needed him. He wasn’t allowed to die.

“Any descendant of the Twelve, including the one you carry, has the respect of Wizarding America for what the Twelve sacrificed,” Percival said. He had a nice voice for stories, if you overlooked the subject matter. “The Graves name is a bit more so, because there has always been a Graves in MACUSA, to ensure the safety of our people. When old Gondulphus died, his son Geriant joined MACUSA as its newest Auror. And that’s the way it’s been, ever since.” He looked faintly apologetic when he added, “It’s not a pretty story. History often isn’t. But it’s ours.”

Percival served MACUSA. Credence wondered if that was what he expected their son to do, if he died in the line of duty.

Ma didn’t like questions, so Credence tried not to ask them. But Percival had never seemed to mind them, and he wouldn’t hurt Credence, so maybe it was safe to ask.

“Is that … is that what you expect our son to do?”

“What?”

“Join MACUSA.” Except that wasn’t what he wanted to ask, not really. “Die to keep magical people safe,” Credence added.

“Our people,” said Percival. “And … no. Of course not. No Graves serves MACUSA if they don’t want to. If they aren’t called to it. My sister Dindrane is a researcher for the Fisher Institute. They research new spells, refine magical techniques. It’s a good job, one worthy of the Graves name. She’s happy there.”

Credence hadn’t known that Percival had a sister. It seemed like the sort of thing he ought to know. But that wasn’t important right now. The important thing was that if Percival’s sister wasn’t part of MACUSA, maybe no one would say anything if their son wasn’t either.

“That’s … that’s good,” Credence said. Maybe Dindrane could tell him how she’d escaped the family destiny. He’d ask, once he met her. If she was anything like Percival, she wouldn’t mind questions either, and she’d tell him. 

He’d said enough. He knew that Percival wouldn’t hurt him, but he still didn’t want to push the other man. Not when he didn’t know where the limits were.

Credence set his jaw and told himself to be brave, like Mr. Graves. He could be brave for their son. “I don’t want my son dying for Mr. Grindelwald’s war. Or yours.”

“I’m not fighting a war,” said Percival. He sounded a little baffled by the accusation. Did he not realize what he sounded like? He sounded like a soldier, like a warrior king from the Old Testament. He sounded like someone who expected to die young.

Credence risked meeting Percival’s warm brown eyes. “Aren’t you?” he asked.

“No,” Percival said. “I’ve been to war, Credence. I may go to war again, if Grindelwald gets his way. But I’m not fighting one now.”

“You sound like you are,” Credence told him.

“Ah,” said Percival. He sighed. “You’re right. I’m not fighting a war right now, but I am a warrior. It’s in my nature. I’ve always been this way.” One corner of his mouth quirked up in a wry smile. “Wampus,” he added, somewhat nonsensically. “My House, at Ilvermorny. It’s – I’ll explain later.”

Credence nodded, since none of it made sense but none of it seemed relevant anyhow. He wondered how wizards could speak perfectly normal English and still seem like they were speaking a different language. It was incredibly frustrating.

Percival knelt by the cot and reached out to grasp Credence’s hands in his own. “I have always been a warrior,” he said. “From the time I was very small to when I joined MACUSA. It’s a fundamental part of who I am, Credence. But I promise you, if I sound like I’m fighting now it’s because I have something to fight for. Our son won’t have to fight if he doesn’t want to. Not if it’s not in his nature. I will tear this world apart before I let either of you come to harm. You have my word as a Graves on that.”

He meant it, Credence realized. He would fight and bleed and die so their son had a better world to grow up in. He tightened his hands on Percival’s, unthinking.

He didn’t want that. He wanted a chance to get to know Percival. He wanted Percival to _live._

Percival bent his head and brushed a chaste kiss over the back of one of Credence’s hands. “I’ll keep you both safe, I promise.”

“I know,” Credence said, around the rising lump in his throat. 

He wasn’t magic. Not like Percival. Percival said that he was, but Credence had believed that lie before and he did not think he could recover from it a second time, if it turned out that Percival was wrong. (Or lying, like Mr. Grindelwald had. Credence didn’t think that Percival would lie to him, but he didn’t know that, with eerie certainty, the way he knew that Percival wouldn’t hurt him, so maybe Percival would.)

If he were magic, he could keep Percival and their son safe. Credence didn’t know how, but it was _magic._ Surely all things were possible with magic.

Magic had to be learned. Mr. Grindelwald had said as much. Some of the things Percival said made him think that was true.

Maybe Percival could teach him.

He tugged Percival to his feet. “It’s late,” he said. “We should sleep.”

“I could take the floor,” Percival offered.

Credence stared at him, baffled. “You don’t want to sleep with me?” he asked, uncertain. He realized too late how wanton that sounded, and blushed at his own shameless nature. 

_You’re such a stupid, sinful boy._

“Of course I do,” Percival blurted. “Shit. That’s not what I ... I didn’t want to presume. That is, not if you don’t want me to.”

Credence thought the faint blush rising on his cheeks made Percival look very handsome, like a fairy tale prince. 

“You make me feel safe,” he said, in lieu of an even more shameless admission.

“Alright,” said Percival, kicking off his shoes and crawling onto the cot next to Credence. He got them tucked underneath the thin sheet and scratchy blanket in short order, resting one hand against Credence’s belly, where it belonged. Credence felt the hum of unfamiliar magic reaching out to say hello again and smiled, tucking his head against Percival’s chest. He did feel safer here, with Percival. It was nice. Mr. Grindelwald would drag him back to Ma in the morning, but for now, he was safe.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've taken some liberties with how _lumos_ works, since neither Graves nor Credence has a wand to work with. I hope this doesn't bug anyone too much.

Mr. Grindelwald didn’t drag him back to Ma in the morning.

Credence fidgeted, unsure of what to do without his list of chores to complete. Ma wasn’t one for leisure; she thought it encouraged sin. 

Two bowls of porridge appeared on the floor a little after dawn, and the empty stew bowls vanished.

Percival looked over at them and sighed. “He does this on purpose,” he confided. “He likes meals that require utensils and delights in not giving them to me. For a genocidal maniac, Grindelwald is appallingly petty.” He passed one of the porridge bowls to Credence. 

Credence tipped the bowl towards his mouth. Porridge, he discovered, was a lot like soup, and much better when it wasn’t watered down. He thought maybe there was real milk in it, even. 

He lowered the bowl, guilty, because Percival wasn’t eating. He was just watching Credence, a faint smile on his face.

“Nothing phases you, does it?” Percival asked.

“I’m sorry?”

“I meant it as a compliment,” Percival said hastily. “It’s just – you seem so adaptable. Nothing phases you. Not the magic or the would-be tyrant wearing my face or any of it. You just go on. It’s impressive, really.”

Credence stared at him. He was fairly certain Percival wasn’t making fun of him, but … no one ever said nice things about him, much less _to_ him. He wasn’t sure what to make of it.

It was nice.

“I’m nothing special,” he said, in case Percival got the wrong idea about him.

Percival huffed a laugh and tipped half his porridge into Credence’s bowl. “You’re extraordinary,” he said. 

“You shouldn’t –” Credence said, and broke off. He wasn’t sure what Percival shouldn’t do. Say such things, maybe. Or keep giving Credence half his food.

“A couple days of short rations won’t hurt me,” said Percival. “And I’m sick of porridge, whereas you actually seem to like the stuff.”

Credence looked over the pared-down length of Percival and privately disagreed. But the porridge _was_ good.

“It tastes better, when it’s not all watered down,” he explained. Ma’s family ate from the same pot as the orphans. Watering down the soup or the gruel helped stretch the food a bit further.

“You eat a lot of watered down porridge?”

“Gruel, mostly,” Credence said, unthinking. 

“Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights,” said Percival, dumping the rest of his porridge into Credence’s bowl. “That _woman.”_

Credence blinked, taken aback by the sudden largesse. “Percival?”

Percival scowled. “Eat,” he commanded.

“But you haven’t left anything for yourself,” Credence protested.

_“Eat.”_

Aware that he’d misstepped but not sure how, Credence obeyed. 

“When I get out of here – when _we_ get out of here – I’m going to take you to dinner,” Percival said. He sounded determined, like his words were holy writ and graven in stone. “Somewhere nice. The Luminaria, maybe. And then I’m going to order you one of everything on the menu, so you can find out what you like.” He looked despairingly at the porridge. “And to think, I was going to complain about the lack of honey in the porridge. You do know how to make a man feel humble.”

“I’m sorry,” Credence said quietly.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Percival said. “You’ve not had many opportunities in life so far. I mean to correct that, once we’re out of here.”

Credence ate some more porridge. He liked the thought of that. Of spending time with Percival. Of being a part of his world, and eating the way wizards did. Surely Percival didn’t actually mean to order one of everything on the menu, though. That would just be wasteful.

Something about Percival’s steely-eyed determination suggested that he might.

“Are you sure you don’t want any?” he asked. “Just a little bit?”

“I’m fine,” Percival said. 

“Because I really don’t need this much; Ma says gluttony is a sin.”

“Your Ma says a lot of things. Most of them are absolute nonsense,” Percival said very firmly. 

Credence gaped at him. He’d never dared to think such things, because Ma would know he was thinking something sinful and punish him accordingly.

“A healthy breakfast is hardly gluttony,” Percival added. “Now eat up.”

 

*

 

Credence got increasingly anxious, as the day wore on and Grindelwald failed to make an appearance. He kept looking at the top of the stairs, like he was waiting for Grindelwald to take him away. That was what bothered him, Graves realized. Not the captivity, but the _waiting._

Offering to tell him about the wizarding world did not seem like a good idea, given what a spectacular failure his last history lesson had been. Offering to teach him magic when Credence was so obviously unsettled did not seem like a good idea either.

“Tell me about yourself,” Graves said. 

Credence stopped fruitlessly tidying their cell. “There’s not much to tell,” he said.

“Tell me anyway,” said Graves. “I want to know.”

Credence shrugged. “Ma took me from the orphanage when I was small,” he said. “I don’t know how long I was there. It felt like forever. She took me in. Chastity and Modesty, too. My sisters,” he said. “Chastity’s sixteen. Modesty’s eight.”

“What are they like?” Graves asked. Goldstein had mentioned children, plural, but he hadn’t paid them any mind.

“Chastity is … Very devoted to the cause,” Credence said. “Modesty’s still just a kid. She likes hopscotch. Her parents lived in a tenement in the Bronx. She had nine siblings, once. Sometimes she’ll tell me about them.”

“What happened to them?”

“The flu got them,” Credence said. “Almost took her too, but she’s strong.” He went back to tidying the cell, not that there was much to tidy. “I’m worried about her. She forgets the rules, sometimes. Ma doesn’t like that.”

And their ma punished disobedience. Graves wondered what Mary Lou Barebone used on an eight year old girl. Not a belt, surely. 

“You look out for her,” he guessed, although he could fill in the blanks well enough.

“I try to,” Credence said. “Sometimes it doesn’t help.”

“I’m sure your other sister will look after her,” Graves tried.

Credence hunched his shoulders. 

Graves decided he didn’t like the sound of ‘very devoted to the cause.’

“I have a nephew Modesty’s age,” Graves said, by way of distraction. “Lance. Well, Lancelot, really, but no one calls him that unless they’re upset with him.” 

“Your sister’s son?” Credence asked.

“Youngest of three,” Graves confirmed. “The other two are Arthur and Guinevere. Gwen, for short.” He smiled ruefully. “My mother was a Merlinian scholar, and she named her children accordingly. Dindrane decided to carry on the tradition. They’re proper wizarding names, just … Odd. Taken altogether like that.”

Dindrane had been about thirteen when she’d decided that, and nothing in the subsequent three decades had been able to change her mind. Even Robert hadn’t been able to change her mind, and Robert had just as much a right to name their children as she did. “I’m going to name my children from the stories,” she’d announced. “They’ll be Arthur and Lancelot and Galahad and Guinevere and Elaine.”

Graves, age nine, had just made faces at her. “What, d’you want the whole Round Table?”

“Don’t be silly,” she’d told him. “You’ll have to help.”

Graves had given her what he’d hoped was a withering look. It hadn’t worked. “Fine,” he’d conceded. “Mordred and Morgana and Maleagant.”

“Ugh,” Dindrane had said, and tipped him off the couch so she could sit on him until he promised not to name his future children _after the villains, Percival, really._

Credence looked puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are those names odd taken together?”

Graves bit back his first response, which was, “You don’t know the story of King Arthur?” The awful No-Maj woman probably considered it blasphemous, or some such nonsense. “Have you heard the story of King Arthur?” he asked, which sounded less accusatory. It wasn’t _Credence’s_ fault he didn’t know the story, after all.

Credence shook his head.

“Would you like me to tell it to you?” Graves asked. “I’m not the expert my mother was, but I know it well enough.” 

Credence hesitated. Then he nodded, settling down on the floor with his arms wrapped around his knees. 

“A long, long time ago, when wizards lived alongside the No-Maj’s and neither feared the other, the most beautiful woman in the land was named Igraine,” Graves began. “She was married to a man called Gorlois, and bore him three daughters named Elaine and Morgause and Morgana, who were beautiful, like their mother, and clever, like their father.

“The King at that time was Uther Pendragon, who took one look at Igraine and fell in love. The stories say he wooed her and won her, and Gorlois took her away from Uther’s court in a fit of jealousy. Uther waged war on Gorlois in pursuit of his beloved. He begged his wizard friend Merlin for the chance to see her again, just once, on the eve of battle. And Merlin agreed to help him, because they were shieldbrothers, and Uther’s sword had protected Merlin’s magic more than once.

“Merlin used a magic potion to help Uther assume Gorlois’ face for a time.”

“Like Mr. Grindelwald,” Credence said.

“Exactly like,” Graves agreed. “Uther went to his beloved, and got on her a child. And in the morning, he rose and was victorious over his enemy. He married Igraine, and brought her home with him, where she belonged.

“Nine months from that battle, Igraine was delivered of a son, whom she named Arthur. One of the wizard Merlin’s gifts was prophecy, and he foresaw that Arthur would be a great king. He took the infant boy away and fostered him amongst allies, so that he could grow to manhood safely, and without his father’s shadow.

“Uther was a warrior king. He fell, in battle, when Arthur was just fifteen. Arthur took command of his armies and led them to victory, and then he led them to more. He built a kingdom out of disparate peoples and fought against the threat of Annwn, the Otherworld, thanks to Merlin’s guidance. He built a kingdom and called it Camelot, where wizards such as Merlin could live openly with their neighbors, and he defended it against his enemies, wizards and No-Maj’s alike.”

Graves paused. “Normally, this is the part where I’d tell you about all the glorious battles Arthur fought, but it gets a bit repetitive, and I was never that good at the battles, anyway. Dindrane tells them better. She has to; Lance has a bit of a bloodthirsty streak.”

That got him a faint smile.

Graves considered the matter. “Gwen, too. Although hers is less of a bloodthirsty streak and more of a mural.” _Just_ like her Uncle Percival, Dindrane swore, usually while relaying one of Gwen’s misadventures.

That got him an actual laugh. Graves savored the sound.

“So, if I skip the battles, then the next part is the Round Table.”

Graves liked the bit about the Round Table. He’d always had a soft spot for Arthur’s knights – especially his namesake. It was easy to fall into the rhythm of storytelling, the familiar names falling easily from his lips. He hinted at their accomplishments, because their stories deserved to be told in full, but for today his focus was Arthur.

“Best of Arthur’s knights was Lancelot, whom Arthur loved like a brother. Lancelot sat at Arthur’s right hand, and Merlin at his left. And in time, Arthur married Guinevere, who eclipsed Igraine’s beauty and was named the most beautiful woman in the world.”

Graves had never been one for love stories. Dindrane hadn’t either; she thought the love triangle was stupid, and could have been solved quite sensibly if Arthur and Lancelot and Guinevere had all slept together, or at least come to some sort of shared arrangement. Their mother had only been mildly scandalized by the suggestion, but it made their father laugh.

He didn’t think he did it justice, but Credence seemed to like it well enough – his description of the love, the longing, the anguish at the thought of betrayal. He stopped hugging his knees and leaned forward, captivated.

He really was lovely, Graves thought, and kicked himself for it a second later. He had no right to think such things.

Or, he realized with dawning horror, to try and woo Credence. Which was what he was doing.

Fuck, he thought. Grindelwald was _right._

“Percival?” Credence asked, when Graves lapsed into stunned silence.

“Sorry,” said Graves. “Where was I?” 

“Mordred, and the fall of Camelot,” Credence prompted. “I thought you said you weren’t good at the battles.”

“I’m really not,” Graves said. “Dindrane tells them much better. When she does the battles, you can practically feel the weight of a sword in your hands, the near death rush of evading a sword strike. You can smell the horses, and the mud and the blood and hear the sound of metal ringing. When I tell them, they’re just stories.”

“I like the way you tell them,” Credence said.

“Oh,” said Graves, feeling absurdly pleased with himself.

Grindelwald didn’t get to take this too. Wasn’t that what he kept telling himself? Graves might not have chosen to bed Credence, but he had. He’d gotten Credence with child, exactly like Grindelwald wanted.

That was the last time Grindelwald got what he wanted, if Graves had anything to say about it. He was going to escape. He was going to get them both free, and if he wanted any kind of relationship with their son, then he had to win Credence over first.

Graves could admit, in the privacy of his own head, that he had absolutely no fucking clue how to do that. He knew how to court a lover; he wasn’t _that_ romantically inept. But he only knew how to do the sort of courting free men did, with gifts and suppers and stolen kisses. 

He had no idea how to court Credence from inside a cage.

He resolved to think about the matter later, and returned his attention to the story of Arthur and Camelot.

“I see what you mean,” Credence said, when Graves had finished the story. “It is a bit odd, having all three of your nieces and nephews named after a love story.”

“It is, a bit,” Graves admitted. “But most people accept it as a familial eccentricity. And anyone stupid enough to suggest anything vulgar usually thinks better of it. Dindrane is … very good at hexes.” That was putting it mildly. In his lower moments, Graves was certain that _Dindrane_ wouldn’t have lost a duel with Grindelwald. 

Of course, Dindrane also wouldn’t have been drunk. 

He was desperately glad that Dindrane had never felt the urge to serve MACUSA. If Grindelwald had gone after her … It didn’t bear thinking on.

“You mentioned that last night,” Credence said, breaking into Graves’ thoughts. “Camelot. You said people wanted to build a new Camelot for the new world.”

“You remembered that?” Graves asked, impressed by Credence’s attention to detail. If he’d gone to Ilvermorny, the way he was supposed to, that skill would have served him well academically.

It also would have made him a damn fine Auror, in another life.

Graves wondered what he would have done, if that other life had come to pass. Credence was too young still to be anything but an Auror trainee, and well below the Director of Magical Security’s notice. (Nothing in Magical Security was actually beneath Graves’ notice. He made sure of that.) Would he have noticed Credence? 

Probably not. Graves was well aware that there were a number of trainees and junior Aurors and occasionally full Aurors who considered him attractive; he knew how to let them down gently and make it clear that they would never speak of it again. To do anything else would have been an abuse of his position. If Credence had been one of his Auror trainees, Graves never would have let himself look at him.

“It’s easy to remember what I hear,” Credence said. “Ma doesn’t like to repeat herself, except when she’s preaching.”

“It’s quite impressive,” Graves told him. “And yes, I did mention Camelot last night. The stories say that Arthur will come again, and when he does he will put the world to rights. Wizards and No-Maj’s will live alongside each other in harmony. Every once in awhile, some bright spark will take it into their head to try and _build_ a new Camelot, regardless of whether or not Arthur and Merlin have come again. It rarely ends well.”

“That’s no reason to stop trying,” Credence pointed out. “Just because something’s hard doesn’t mean it’s not worth doing.”

“It just makes success all the sweeter,” Graves agreed.

“I’d like it, if wizards and No-Maj’s could live together,” Credence confided.

Graves didn’t care about it one way or another. It was against the law, and he rarely interacted with No-Maj’s outside of ordinary business transactions anyway. But he found himself saying, “Me too,” because it was something Credence wanted.

You are a stupidly besotted sentimental fool, he told himself. The words didn’t hold as much sting as they should have. 

Credence’s smile was a strange, fledgling thing, like he wasn’t used to it. He probably wasn’t, which just made it something that was equally terrible and wonderful to see.

“Are there other stories?” he asked. “About Arthur and his knights?”

“Plenty,” Graves told him. “I think I heard every possible variation of them from my mother. Would you like to hear more?”

“Please,” said Credence.

“Alright,” Graves said, and launched into the story of Gawain and the Green Knight. He was glad he could offer Credence this, at least. Stories were an unconventional courting gift, but for now they were all he could think of to offer.

Everything would be different, as soon as he got them free. He’d need to find time to practice wandless magic that was better suited for combat eventually, but for now, this was enough.

 

*

 

Two days passed before Credence realized that Mr. Grindelwald had no intention of letting him go. Porridge continued to appear in the mornings and some variety of soup at night, but Mr. Grindelwald himself made no appearance at all.

“He does this, sometimes,” Percival said. He’d abandoned the tattered remains of his shirt in favor of nothing but his trousers, and was doing sit-ups. Credence had lost count after a hundred or so, because the sight of Percival’s bare torso gleaming with sweat was a bit distracting.

The realization made him flush with embarrassment and avert his gaze.

Stupid, he told himself. You’re such a stupid, sinful boy.

Except, he was already with child out of wedlock. He’d let Percival sodomize him more than once and he’d _liked_ it. He coveted Percival and Percival’s world. What was one more sin on top of those?

He sneaked another glance. Percival’s torso was well-defined, and scattered with dark hair. Credence kind of wanted to kiss his way down Percival’s chest, like Percival had done to him, but he wasn’t sure he was allowed to. Percival had made no moves to touch him like … like _that,_ now that he was with child.

Credence missed it more than he thought he would.

“The waiting’s hard,” Percival continued. “Not knowing what he’s doing, or who he might hurt.”

Credence suspected it was that last bit that really worried Percival, since Mr. Grindelwald was still wearing his face. Mr. Grindelwald could hurt people, and they would think Percival had done it.

“I’m worried about Modesty,” he confessed. “She’s so little. She forgets how to be good sometimes. I don’t …” He lapsed into frightened silence, because he’d almost said something unforgivable.

“You don’t?” Percival prompted gently.

Credence fidgeted. Mr. Grindelwald wasn’t going to take him back to Ma. He understood that now. And Percival wouldn’t hurt him. Percival was _safe._

“I don’t want Ma to hurt Modesty for being sinful, like me,” Credence blurted. He pressed a hand over his mouth and hunched in on himself, more than a little bit terrified by the admission. He’d never dared to voice a criticism about Ma before. Not ever.

Percival stopped doing sit-up’s and rolled to his feet. “You’re not sinful,” he said firmly, coming to rest his hands on Credence’s shoulders.

“Everyone is,” Credence said. “We’re born that way. We can only be redeemed through faith.”

“Did your Ma tell you that?” 

“Ma and the Bible,” said Credence.

“Your Ma was wrong,” Percival said. “The Bible, too. No one’s born sinful. We act according to our natures, and it’s our actions that redeem us, not our faith.”

“Maybe it works that way for wizards,” Credence said doubtfully. “But it’s different, for people like me. We – No-Maj’s – are born sinful.”

“Except you _are_ a wizard,” Percival pointed out. “By that logic, you weren’t born sinful either. The only sinful person is your Ma, for trying to tell you you’re something that you’re not.”

That was perilously close to blasphemy. Ma had worked hard to overcome her own sinful nature. She’d been redeemed by her faith and her ministry.

Credence stepped back. “I’m not a wizard,” he said. “I can’t do magic.”

“You could if someone taught you how,” Percival persisted.

“Could _you_ teach me?” Credence asked, finally daring to ask the question that had been burning inside of him for the last two days.

“I’m not much of a teacher,” Percival warned. “But yes. I can.”

“I think,” Credence said slowly, “that I’d like that. Please.”

Percival grinned, a little bit toothy and entirely self-satisfied. Credence wasn’t sure why agreeing to learn magic made Percival look smug, but it looked good on him, so Credence didn’t mind.

“No time like the present,” he said. “The first thing you should know is that most wizards use wands for a reason. Wands help channel our magic from raw power into something useful. Magical children often have outbursts of magic – like what you did with the potions bottle, a couple weeks ago. They break things, or sometimes set them on fire, or find themselves doing something impossible like conjuring up windstorms to carry them to safety. It’s instinctive, and primarily driven by self-preservation.”

Credence wanted to argue that he _hadn’t_ broken the potions bottle, but he did actually want to learn magic, so he kept quiet.

“It’s not safe, letting your magic lash out like that. Magic needs to be controlled. A wand helps with that.”

“You don’t use a wand,” Credence pointed out. “Neither does Mr. Grindelwald, when he’s pretending to be you.”

“He couldn’t pretend to be me if he did,” Percival said. “My talent with wandless spells is … well known, in MACUSA. It’s one of the reasons I made Director of Magical Security so young.”

“Oh.” Credence mulled that over. To earn any position in government relatively young, you needed raw talent and ambition or a good family name and a lot of money. He suspected that the wizarding world wasn’t so different from the ordinary one in that regard. Percival _did_ have a good family name, and probably a lot of money if the nice suits Mr. Grindelwald liked to wear were any indicator, but Percival didn’t strike him as the sort of person who bought his way into anything. It would mean more to him if he earned it. And to use magic without the proper tools to guide it … “You’re very strong, aren’t you?” he asked. “As a wizard, I mean.”

“I thought so, once,” Percival said, faintly sardonic. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

That was Percival for yes.

Credence smiled, satisfied. Half of the things Percival said made no sense, most of the time, but it was getting easier to figure out what he meant.

“Anyway,” Percival continued briskly. “My point is, wandless magic is difficult. It can be done, if you have the will for it, but you can’t get discouraged if nothing happens the first time or the tenth or the fiftieth. You have magic. It’s just going to be hard to learn to use it.”

“I’m not afraid of a little hard work,” Credence said, because he wasn’t. Learning magic would probably be easier than handing out pamphlets or trying to complete his chores on too little sleep and even less food.

Percival smiled at him. “I didn’t think that you were. Now. The first spell most everyone learns is the one for light. _Lumos,”_ he said, and a ball of soft white light appeared over both of their heads.

“Oh,” Credence said, delighted. It was just like Genesis, but better. _And God said, “Let there be light,” and there was light. And God saw the light, that it was good, and God divided the light from the darkness._

“Most spells have their own signatures,” Percival told him. “A series of wand movements associated with them. Magically sensitive witches and wizards can feel the shape of the spell in their minds. It’s part of what my sister’s researching, at the Fisher Institute. Can you feel this one?”

Credence shook his head, because he only felt wonder. He didn’t know how to sense magic.

Percival made the light disappear. “Try again,” he said. _“Lumos,”_ he repeated. 

Credence strained his senses, trying to feel _something._

Percival banished the light again. “The wand movement for _lumos_ is like this,” he said, using his right index finger to trace a single looping corkscrew in the air. “Try to hold that shape in your mind. Think about … think about the light from a single candle in the darkness, just a little glow to lead the way. _Lumos.”_

Maybe it was his imagination, but Credence thought he felt something that time. A glow in the darkness, maybe. He pictured the shape Percival had drawn and thought about the way the solitary working streetlamp outside the church looked at night, beckoning the needy to their doors. He thought _let there be light_ and felt something unfamiliar uncurl in his chest, a sense of rightness he’d never felt before.

 _“Lumos,”_ he whispered.

Nothing happened.

“Keep trying,” Percival said encouragingly. “I told you, you can’t get discouraged if nothing happens the first time or the tenth or the fiftieth.”

 _“Lumos,”_ Credence repeated, making his voice sound firm and commanding, the way that Percival’s did. The thing in his chest turned a somersault, like a key catching in a lock. Credence thought maybe it was his magic.

 _“Lumos,”_ he said again, drawing the shape in his mind.

The thing in his chest broke free and light burst into their cell, bright as the sun but without the warmth.

“You did it!” Percival crowed, yanking him close for a hug. He pulled back a second later, looking chagrined. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I’m all sweaty.”

“I don’t mind,” Credence said honestly. He rather liked it. It was sort of like how Percival was after … after they’d finished, when Credence was boneless and content beneath him.

“Still,” Percival said, awkward. “Alright. The spell to banish _lumos_ is _nox._ The wand movement is exactly like the one for _lumos,_ but in reverse. Think about snuffing a candle out.”

 _Nox_ was easier than _lumos,_ now that Credence had the shape of it in his mind. The wand movement erased what _lumos_ had done, letting the magic go. He thought _and God divided the light from the darkness_ and said: _“Nox.”_

The light vanished like it had never been.

“Well done!” Percival said, beaming at him. “Can you do it again?”

 _“Lumos,”_ Credence said, by way of answer. The light flared into existence, bright and beautiful.

“Try and see if you can temper it,” Percival suggested. “Make it smaller, and a little less bright.”

 _“Nox,”_ Credence said obediently. Trying to make the light smaller didn’t work quite as well as he’d hoped. 

“Keep at it,” Percival said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You’ll be able to control it in no time, I’m sure of it. I’m going to practice a spell of my own, if you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all,” Credence said, still too elated by the fact that _he’d done magic_ to care about anything. He’d done magic! Him! Credence Barebone! Mr. Grindelwald had said he had power, but that he couldn’t use it, and he _had._

He had magic, and he was going to learn how to use it to keep his son safe from anything that meant him harm. He didn’t know how, but he had _magic,_ and nothing seemed impossible now.

He focused on trying to make the light smaller and softer and hardly noticed Percival settling down on the floor again, his eyes staring off into the distance at things 

Credence couldn’t see. He’d done that sometimes, when he wasn’t exercising or telling Credence stories about the Round Table. Credence hadn’t realized it meant he was practicing magic, because nothing happened. 

Credence thought he almost had the knack of making a neat round globe the way Percival had when he heard the sound of stone breaking. He spun around and stared at Percival, who was looking at the fresh gashes on the floor with predatory satisfaction.

“Got it,” he said.

“What was _that?”_ Credence asked. 

“One of Grindelwald’s favorites,” said Percival. _“Dilaceratio._ It’s the slashing hex he used on my leg. And my arm. It works well enough on stone, if you’re determined enough.”

Credence had seen enough of the damage that spell could do to know that it was dangerous, and that he didn’t like it. “Why would you want to learn that?” he demanded, breathless and more than a little uneasy.

“It’s a combat spell,” Percival said. “I’d rather know it and not need to use it when we get out of here, than need to use it and not be able to cast it.”

Credence looked at the gashes on the floor and thought about the way they looked in human flesh. On _Percival’s_ flesh. There was the awful wound just below Percival’s right knee that he’d seen the first night they’d met. It was an angry looking scar and a very faint limp now, but the damage was already done. The wounds on his left forearm and his cheek had scabbed over and begun to crack and peel, and Credence suspected that they still hurt more than Percival would admit to.

“It’s awful,” he said.

Percival tipped his head in acknowledgment. “Most combat spells are. But they are useful, under the right circumstances.”

Credence thought back to what Percival had said: _I’m not fighting a war right now, but I am a warrior. It’s in my nature. I’ve always been this way._

He didn’t know if he could bear it, if anything happened to Percival. Percival was good and righteous and kind and _safe._ Percival wouldn’t hurt anyone if he didn’t have to. Not even Mr. Grindelwald. He was like one of the knights from his stories.

“I can’t stop you from fighting, can I?” he asked, feeling stupid and helpless and useless.

Percival did something that smoothed the damage from the stone floor like it had never been. He reached out for Credence’s hand, and rubbed his thumb over the knuckles. “No,” he said, sounding regretful. “No one can. But you can give me a reason to fight to come home again.”

Credence tightened his grip on Percival’s hand. “Promise me,” he said, daring to press a kiss against one corner of Percival’s mouth. “Promise me you’ll come home to us.”

Percival rested his forehead against Credence’s. “I promise,” he said, and because he was Percival, Credence believed it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one has feels of the ouchy variety, guys. Sorry. =(

Grindelwald got bored with Graves’ shirtlessness after three days, and tossed a fresh shirt at Graves while he prowled outside their cell with restless, frenetic energy.

Graves cocked an eyebrow at him as he buttoned the shirt up. He was content to wait Grindelwald out. He’d done it before, and he liked how much it annoyed the dark wizard.

“Mr. Grindelwald?” Credence asked tentatively. “Could I see my sister? Please?”

Graves put himself between Credence and Grindelwald when Grindelwald narrowed his eyes. He didn’t think Grindelwald would try and hurt the person carrying his so-called future general, but Grindelwald had an alarming tendency not to see people as _people._ He wasn’t willing to risk it.

“You’ll be safer here, where I can keep an eye on you,” Grindelwald said, dismissive.

“I know, sir,” Credence persisted. “And thank you, sir. But Modesty’s only eight, and _she’s_ not safe.”

Grindelwald tilted his head and eyed Credence with a cold, reptilian stare. “She’s eight, you said.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your younger sister. Not the shrill one.”

“Yes, sir.” Credence said, starting to look hopeful.

Grindelwald stared at Credence. Graves didn’t like the look in his eerie, mismatched eyes. It didn’t bode well for anyone. Why was Grindelwald focusing on Credence’s No-Maj little sister?

He realized why a second later. It was possible Modesty Barebone wasn’t a No-Maj. Credence wasn’t. Credence was a rarity, though. He’d managed to keep his abilities hidden, practically dormant until Grindelwald had thrust himself into Credence’s life. That he’d managed to do so at all was a testament to Credence’s strength. 

Graves didn’t want to think about what a frightened, terrified magical child would do, if the choice was a beating or magic. There hadn’t been an Obscurial in America in close to two hundred years now, but he suspected living with Credence’s Ma was a guaranteed recipe for one.

“No,” Grindelwald said finally. “You don’t need to see her. She’s none of your concern, now. She’s just a Muggle, whereas you, my boy, carry the future safety of the wizarding world within you. My general will keep my son safe, and my son will rebuild the world.”

“Please,” Credence said, voice breaking. “She’s my sister.”

Grindelwald ignored him and focused on Graves. “Picquery has been nosing around Major Investigations again.”

“Ah,” said Graves.

That explained the frenetic energy, at least. Grindelwald didn’t like Seraphina. Graves wasn’t sure if it was because Seraphina was a woman, seeing as Grindelwald had little enough use for them, or if Grindelwald didn’t like Seraphina because she was strong enough to challenge him. If Seraphina had decided to involve herself in one of Major Investigations cases, she was bound to notice that Graves wasn’t himself sooner or later. They had too much shared history between them for her not to.

In the first awful days of his captivity, Graves had hoped for rescue. He’d hoped that Seraphina or one of his team would notice that he wasn’t responding to their in-jokes the way he usually did; that the man wearing his face lacked the proper context for everything they’d been through. He’d held off on telling Grindelwald anything that might’ve convinced them otherwise, until his mind had almost broken beneath the weight of the Cruciatus Curse.

He’d tossed out the first few details reluctantly, because being rescued would do him no good if all his team found was a burnt-out husk fit for nothing save life in a quiet sanitarium. And then he’d realized that his silence had done no good. If Hughes or Collins or Summersea had noticed that he wasn’t himself, then Grindelwald would’ve killed them and thought nothing of it. He’d have staged their deaths so that they would be victims of the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, and used it to drum up fear and panic and it would have been nothing but the truth.

Graves didn’t hope for rescue anymore. The only rescue he was likely to get was the one he made for himself and Credence. All he could do now was hope whatever he told Grindelwald kept the few people he cared about safe.

Still, the basic forms had to be observed.

“You could try solving a few cases,” he suggested, so bland the sarcasm was unmistakable. “I generally find that gets Picquery off my back rather quickly.”

“I could also bring her here,” countered Grindelwald. “The Picquery bloodline is a powerful one, isn’t it? I could put you to stud on her as well as Credence, and get two generals from the Graves bloodline, if you’d prefer.”

“If you were really going to do that, you’d have done it long ago,” Graves drawled, taking care to sound bored with the very idea of it. It was true, to a certain extent. If Grindelwald could have captured Seraphina, he’d have done it already, but Seraphina was too much in the public eye to go missing without a doppelganger waiting in the wings to replace her, and Grindelwald couldn’t be in two places at once.

Grindelwald made a face. “True, unfortunately. I could kill her, though. That would be poetic, wouldn’t it? President Picquery, felled by her old friend and trusted right hand.”

Graves shrugged. “If you want to burn my identity, be my guest,” he said, like the very notion of Grindelwald hurting Seraphina didn’t make him want to claw his way out of captivity with his bare hands.

Grindelwald didn’t want to kill Seraphina anymore than Graves wanted Grindelwald to hurt her. Seraphina’s assassination would destabilize wizarding America. For now, Grindelwald’s plans depended on the status quo. 

“No,” Grindelwald said. “Not yet.”

Well, that was new and terrifying. 

Shit.

Graves folded his arms across his chest and went with his back-up plan. “Pick a fight with her,” he said. “A personal one, not a professional pissing match. She outranks me, and she only ever lets me win when it’s something she wanted me to do all along.”

“And how,” Grindelwald purred, practically radiating smug satisfaction, “would you propose _I_ provoke a personal fight with Madam President?”

Graves wondered if Seraphina would ever forgive him for this. It was the only way he could keep her safe while he was still in a fucking cage, but to do so he’d have to betray her trust. 

“Remind her that _my_ House was the one with the cat, and she’s got no business poking her nose where it doesn’t belong. Tell her it’s like reliving the beginning of Fifth Year all over again. It’ll sting her pride enough to make her back off. If it doesn’t …” Graves forced himself to look Grindelwald in the eyes, because if he closed them or looked away Grindelwald would know exactly what this cost him. “Tell her, it’s worse than Fifth Year. Tell her it’s the Danvers case all over again. Then tell her, _cura dat victoriam.”_

Professor Galen had loved that saying. He’d also been an ass, and Graves’ least favorite instructor at Ilvermorny hands down. Why anyone let him near first years was beyond Graves’ understanding, since the man thought children were very small adults who simply needed to be brutalized into knowing when to speak up and when to keep silent. Professor Galen thought children should be silent at all times, except when answering questions to gauge the depth of their learning. His particular brand of wizarding history had bordered on the worst sort of isolationist paranoia. His rhetoric sounded an awful lot like Grindelwald’s, come to think of it. Except where Grindelwald thought they should rule over the No-Maj’s, Galen thought they needed to hide so deep they’d never be found in order to stay safe.

The literal translation was: “caution gives victory.” 

Graves could never have gotten as far as he had if he was _cautious._ Neither could Seraphina. That was what made the saying so perfect as a goad. It was a verbal slap the the face, an implication that one of them had overshot their reach and failed in their endeavors. Even now, nearly thirty years later, hearing Seraphina say _cura dat victoriam, Percival_ set his blood to boiling like he was still a schoolboy. 

Bringing up the Danvers case would put Seraphina’s back up. Adding _cura dat victoriam_ to the mix would make her go speechless with fury, because he’d never once given her any indication that he blamed her for the Danvers case as much as she blamed herself. Mostly because he _didn’t,_ but Grindelwald didn’t need to know that.

 _“Cura dat victoriam,”_ Grindelwald repeated, thoughtful.

“No,” Graves said. “You have to say it _right,_ or she’ll never believe you’re me. _Cura dat victoriam,_ Seraphina,” he repeated, putting a faint mocking edge to the words. The tone was as much of a barb as the words. “She’ll be furious with you after that. She should leave you alone except on professional matters that can’t be delegated, at least until she gets over being angry at you for bringing up old history and starts being mad at you for not apologizing. That might take awhile.” Graves thought back to the last time they’d let a personal disagreement touch their professional lives. It had taken him close to six weeks to forgive Seraphina. Of course, he wasn’t the one with the tendency to carry a grudge. Seraphina, on the other hand …

Well, Seraphina would probably forgive him for this eventually. Graves wouldn’t blame her if she never trusted him again, though. He didn’t know what he’d do, if their positions were reversed.

“Excellent,” Grindelwald said. “Thank you, Percival, you’ve been very helpful.” He waved a hand, and a tray of sandwiches appeared alongside a pitcher of orange juice and a small plate of neatly sliced apples drizzled with just a hint of honey.

Apples with honey had been one of his favorites when he was a boy. Graves had never mentioned it to Grindelwald. He wondered how Grindelwald had found out. The only two people who knew him well enough to let it slip were Dindrane and Seraphina.

Fuck, he thought, taking care not to let his breathing slip into hyperventilating the way he wanted to. _Fuck._

“Why the generosity?” he drawled. “I don’t usually get lunch.”

“Would you like me to take it back?” Grindelwald inquired.

“Only if it’s poisoned.”

“I wouldn’t do that to my future general,” Grindelwald said, sounding a bit disappointed that Graves hadn’t realized that on his own. “And as for you, I’ve something better in mind for you than poison.”

“I can hardly wait to find out what,” Graves said.

Grindelwald ignored that. “So rest assured that the food is safe. My general will need to grow up healthy and strong.”

“Of course,” Graves muttered. “Was there anything else I can do for you?”

“Know your place, Percival,” Grindelwald chided. “And mind your manners. You ought to say thank you for the food. As it is … _Crucio.”_

When Graves’ nerves stopped screaming in agony, Grindelwald was gone.

Credence knelt on the floor beside him, one hand on Graves’ shoulder, as if to steady him. The other came up to cup Graves’ face.

“Percival?” he asked, dark eyes worried.

“I’m fine,” Graves croaked, levering himself into a sitting position. 

“What is that spell?” Credence asked. “The one that Mr. Grindelwald keeps using? Is that a combat spell, too?”

“The Cruciatus Curse,” Graves told him. “Commonly known as the Torture Curse. It causes pain.”

“I know that,” Credence said impatiently. “He’s used it on me too, remember?”

“All too well, unfortunately,” Graves sighed. “And to answer your other question …. It can be used as a combat spell. Debilitating pain tends to distract your opponents rather nicely. It’s considered a Dark spell, though, and unsanctioned use of it is penalized. In Europe, it’s considered one of the three Unforgiveables.”

“It’s evil,” Credence said. “No one should be able to hurt anyone else like that.”

Graves couldn’t help the smile that put on his face. Credence knew better than most what it was like to be hurt. A meaner person would leap at the chance to hurt their tormentors back, but Credence didn’t want to hurt anyone, or see them hurt. He was extraordinary.

Credence gave him the politely puzzled look Graves was starting to recognize as his version of a frown. He suspected the Barebone woman hadn’t liked any signs of anger or defiance, and Credence had learned to hide them.

“Why are you smiling at me?” Credence asked.

“No reason,” Graves told him. “It’s just – you really do have the most incredible heart. It’s magnificent.” He cleared his throat to keep the moment from getting awkward. “Lunch?”

“Of course,” Credence said, scrambling to bring him the tray.

Graves inspected the sandwiches. Cold roast beef and cheddar with red onions and horseradish mustard sauce on rye that had probably come from his own pantry. There was also tuna salad on sourdough that had probably come from the deli down the street from the Woolworth Building, since they were the only ones he knew of who added diced red bell peppers and dill to their salad. All in all, it was a healthier lunch than he’d expected Grindelwald to provide.

“How do you feel about spicy food?” he asked. “Horseradish has a little bit of bite to it.”

Credence shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said, in lieu of saying that he’d never had any.

“Try it,” Graves suggested, holding half a sandwich out. “You might like it.”

Credence accepted the sandwich and took a tentative bite. He wrinkled his nose at the flavors. “It’s … strong,” he said. 

Graves took one of the remaining sandwich halves apart and handed Credence the piece of bread without horseradish on it. “How about without the horseradish?” he asked.

“Better,” Credence said, after another tentative nibble. “But I can eat this,” he said, gesturing to the sandwich he already had. “I don’t want to be wasteful.”

“You don’t have to eat anything you don’t want to,” Graves said, taking the sandwich back and returning the bits without horseradish. “Today, we’re experimenting. Call it practice, for our dinner at the Luminaria. Today, we’re going to see what you like. Me? I _like_ horseradish.” He put both of his half-sandwiches together and took an enormous bite to prove it.

He didn’t like horseradish _quite_ that much, but he’d eaten stranger things during the war, to say nothing of Dindrane’s experimental culinary phase. Their mother thought well-raised witches and wizards should know how to feed themselves, but she hadn’t expected Dindrane to take to it with her particular brand of scientific inquiry.

In retrospect, Dindrane’s career as a researcher made an awful lot of sense. Graves was just grateful that she’d settled on magical theory rather than trying to take the restaurant world by storm. There’d been a reason he’d been the only child allowed in the kitchen to help during holidays.

“I like roast beef, and the cheese,” Credence decided eventually. “The bread is good too.”

“How about tuna?”

“We have fish sometimes,” Credence said.

“Give it a try,” Graves said. “It’s from the deli down the street from the Woolworth Building. Where I work,” he clarified, at Credence’s puzzled look. 

“It’s really good,” Credence said, after two bites.

Graves ate one of the tuna salad half-sandwiches. Roast beef would keep, for lunch tomorrow. Tuna salad wouldn’t. And besides, Jonesy’s had excellent tuna salad. It’d be a shame to waste it.

They shared the pitcher of orange juice between them, passing it back and forth the way they did the water pitcher in their cell, since Grindelwald thought cups could also be a security risk. (Graves might have broken the first one and used the shards to carve sigils meant to weaken Grindelwald’s wards into walls of his prison. Their current pitchers were goblin-forged steel, practically unbreakable and resistant to transfigurations.) They finished off the tuna salad in short order. 

“We can save these for tomorrow,” Graves said, tucking the remaining roast beef sandwiches into a half-hidden nook he’d spelled out of the wall, hidden by the cot.

“Is this honey?” Credence asked, nibbling on one of the apple slices. 

“It was one of my favorites, when I was a boy,” Graves admitted. “I don’t know how Grindelwald found out.”

“It’s delicious,” Credence said. “Here, have some,” he added, scooping one of the pieces up and pressing it to Graves’ lips. 

Graves ate it, shoving down the feeling of satisfaction he felt at having his lover hand feed him. 

He’s not yours, he reminded himself. You’re wooing him, but you’ve no right to him. Not unless he tells you so.

“Delicious,” he agreed. “You eat them,” he said, when Credence offered the plate up. “Fresh fruit is good for you.”

Credence huffed out his breath in a way that was distinctly reminiscent of Graves’ own impatient laughter. A wolf-laugh, Theseus had called it. More polite than an eye-roll, but only just, if you knew what it meant.

It was odd to think that Credence probably did. Graves hadn’t made any effort to hide his tells from Credence.

“You can’t live on half-portions the entire time I’m with child,” Credence said, shoving another apple slice into Graves’ mouth. “Stop being pig-headed and eat.”

Graves stared at him for a second. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had insulted him so directly to his face. (The _New York Ghost_ was quite another matter.) Then he burst into delighted laughter. Credence had spirit, buried beneath everything else. 

“Yes, dear,” he said meekly, the way Collins did when his wife threatened to send Howlers to the office.

He wondered if Credence would like Dorothy Collins. Dorothy was a sweetheart, with a surprisingly vicious streak when her loved ones were threatened. Dorothy had accompanied Collins to the office, not long after Collins had been transferred to Graves’ team, and looked him up and down with the sort of gimlet-eyed stare that would’ve done a hardened interrogator proud. Then she’d broken into a bright, beaming smile and invited the team home for supper. “You too, Director Graves,” she’d said. “You look like you could use a home-cooked meal.”

Graves had liked her audacity. “Yes, Mrs. Collins. May I bring wine, for the meal?”

“Thank you, Director Graves. That would be lovely.”

He thought Credence probably would like Dorothy. They were both sweet, with the same kind hearts and unbreakable spirits. Dorothy could explain the ins and outs of being an Auror’s spouse far better than Graves could.

Credence laughed at the endearment, bright and sweet, and offered Graves another apple slice. Graves let him shove it into his mouth, and dared to lick the honey from Credence’s fingers.

“Can we have more magic lessons after lunch?” Credence asked.

“Of course,” Graves said. “You can have anything you want.”

 

*

 

Graves woke up sometime in the middle of the night a few days later. He wasn't sure what had woken him. Grindelwald was nowhere to be seen, and he hadn't heard anything out of the ordinary. Credence was safe. He’d rolled over earlier, and was sleeping with his back to Graves.

Except he wasn't sleeping, Graves realized. His shoulders shook with near imperceptible tremors, and that was what had woken him.

“Credence?” he asked.

The tremors got a little harder.

Graves took hold of Credence’s shoulder and tried to turn Credence to face him. Credence curled up into a little ball in response. 

“I’m sorry,” Credence gasped, voice thick with silent tears. “I’m sorry. I didn't mean to wake you.”

“It's alright,” Graves murmured. “What's wrong? Are you hurt?”

Credence made no sound while he wept. It was unnerving, and more than a little heartbreaking. He didn't want to imagine the circumstances that led to Credence learning to cry silently, to avoid further punishment.

Graves curled around him, trying to provide what shelter he could. “You’re safe,” he crooned. “I promise, I’ll keep you safe. It’s alright.” 

“I’m sorry,” Credence said again.

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Graves promised. “Cry for as long as you need to. I’ll be here, when you’re done. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

That opened the floodgates. Credence twisted until he could hide his face against Graves’ chest, fisting his hands in the fabric of Graves’ shirt. His crying didn’t increase in volume at all, but his tears soaked through Graves’ shirt. 

Graves crooned wordless nonsense at him and rubbed his back in soothing circles. He’d been a shoulder to cry on for younger students at Ilvermorny, for his nieces and nephews, for terrified young soldiers during the war and more junior Aurors than he could count. (There had, admittedly, been fewer of those since he’d made Head of Magical Law Enforcement. It was alright to cry on senior Aurors and, occasionally, your supervising officer, but apparently the junior Aurors drew the line at crying on their boss. Graves couldn’t imagine crying on either of his predecessors, so he didn’t fault them for that.)

Gwen and Lance had only ever come to him with childhood hurts – things they didn’t want to tell their parents about, but nothing that made him want to rip the world apart so he could rebuild it properly. Only Arthur’s first broken heart had hurt this badly; Graves had burned with the desire to make things _right_ by whatever means necessary, because no one should be able to make his serious, thoughtful oldest nephew cry as though his heart had been torn in two.

He didn’t know why Credence was crying, only that he would do anything to make it stop.

It seemed an eternity before Credence finally stopped. 

Graves pressed a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll go get you some water,” he said, starting to extricate himself.

Credence clung to him. “Don’t leave me?” he asked.

Graves stopped trying to get out of bed. “Of course not,” he said. “The water can wait. But you should drink some, to replace the fluids you’ve lost or you’ll have a headache later.” He went back to rubbing soothing circles up and down Credence’s back. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked. 

Credence shook his head.

“Okay,” Graves told him. He let fifteen minutes pass before he slipped free of Credence’s grip and went to fetch the water pitcher. “Drink up. It’ll help.”

Credence drank half the pitcher, and then set it aside to retreat to the tiny bathroom in their cell, so he could splash water on his face. “I’m sorry,” he said, once he’d returned to their cot. “I tried not to wake you.”

“I wouldn’t have minded, if you had. You don’t need to hide from me. Not if you don’t want to.”

“It’s just – I know Mr. Grindelwald thinks Modesty’s a No-Maj, but she’s my _sister._ She used to tell me that I was her favorite brother. I know it’s not true, because she had five real brothers, but it was nice of her to say so. She’s – things happen around her, sometimes. The little things you told me about, that magical children do to keep themselves safe. What if she is magic? Without me there to focus on, Ma will realize what Modesty is and she’ll – she’ll try to beat it out of her. I know she will. And Modesty’s so _little._ She cried for days, the first time Ma used a belt on her. She won’t be able to do her chores afterward, like I can. And if she doesn’t work, she doesn’t eat. That’s the rule.” Credence looked at Graves with red-rimmed eyes. “What if something bad happens to her, and I’m not there to stop it? Because I’m not. I’m _here,_ and I’m _trapped_ and I am so, so scared, Percival. I don’t know how to not be scared. I’m not brave, like you.”

This was, impossibly, even worse than listening to Credence cry. Graves thought he hated Grindelwald more than he hated anyone else in the world, but that hatred was eclipsed by the sheer rage he felt towards Credence’s Ma.

Graves reached out and caught Credence’s hands in his own. “If she’s magic, her magic will protect her,” he said. “It’s instinctive. That’s what it does, just like yours did.” 

He wasn’t entirely certain about that. Had he been at all religious, he’d have prayed that it was true. He just hoped that Grindelwald’s curious interest in Modesty Barebone came to nothing. It would break Credence’s heart, if his little sister turned into the first American Obscurial in over two hundred years.

All he had to offer Credence was kindness and the truth. That was probably the closest he’d come to telling Credence a lie.

“It’s alright to be scared,” he told Credence. “I’m scared, too.”

“It’s different,” Credence said. “When you’re scared, you fight. It’s what you do. When I’m scared…” He trailed off. “I do nothing. All being scared does is get me hurt, and I’m not even brave enough to run from it. I just let things happen. I’m just … stupid. And sinful. That’s all I’ll ever be.”

“No,” Graves said sharply – more sharply than he’d ever dared to speak to Credence before. “It isn’t. Credence, you’re the bravest person I know.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Credence said, sounding angry.

“I’m not,” Graves insisted. “I would never lie to you. I swear it. Because you _are._ You, more than anyone, know exactly how awful the world can be, and you refuse to let it make you mean, or unkind, or careless with other people’s hearts. And you don’t even seem to realize how strong that makes you. How wonderfully brave you must be, to keep getting up every morning and being _yourself_ and not the version of you that would let you pass for whatever everyone else wants you to be.”

It wasn’t enough. He could _see_ that it wasn’t enough, that Credence didn’t believe him.

“Do you know what I thought, the first time Grindelwald brought you to me?” he asked.

“That I was stupid?” Credence suggested, sounding bitter.

It was foolish to revel in that, but Graves knew for a fact Credence would’ve just shaken his head and stayed quiet two weeks ago. Credence had spirit, and nothing Mary Lou Barebone or Grindelwald had done had broken it.

He would do his best to shore Credence’s spirit up, rather than break it. He _liked_ Credence’s spirit. He wanted to see what Credence would do with it, without the constant threat of punishment.

“No,” Graves said. “I looked at the welts on your hands, and I knew they’d come from your own belt. And all you were worried about was _me._ You asked about my leg, and I thought: what a heart you had, to endure such things and still remain kind. You’re extraordinary.”

“You keep saying that,” Credence said, sounding tired. “When are you going to realize that I’m not?”

“Never,” Graves promised.

Credence gave him a skeptical look.

“I mean it,” Graves insisted. 

Credence huffed another wolf-laugh, but he stopped looking like he was being slowly gutted from the inside out.

“If you don’t want to fight, or you don’t know how, then I’ll fight for you,” Graves said.

“Because you’re a warrior,” Credence said.

“Because we’re partners,” Graves corrected. “We’re in this together, so we’re partners. That’s what partners do. I’ll fight, so you don’t have to, and you can be kind, so I remember why I’m fighting.”

“You don’t need _me_ for that,” Credence protested. “You’re the nicest person I know.”

Graves resisted the urge to point out that right now, he was the _only_ person Credence knew, aside from Grindelwald. “That’s just because you haven’t met the right people. Once we get out of here, I’ll introduce you to some _really_ nice people, and you’ll see what a grumpy asshole I am.” He had a list of them, starting with Collins and his wife and Santos, who had been his protégé before Norton. Martha the house-elf, who ran MACUSA’s commissary with an iron fist and wasn’t above sneaking a pastry or two to a wizard in need, and Sam the Obliviator, who always tried to leave the No-Maj’s with nice memories rather than blank holes. Goldstein and Goldstein the younger, assuming either of them had forgiven him for demoting Goldstein to the wand permit office in the first place. 

“You’re not a grumpy asshole,” Credence said, stumbling over the swearword. It was ridiculously endearing.

“Believe me,” Graves told him. “You’re in a distinct minority of people who hold that opinion.”

“If you say so,” Credence said doubtfully.

“I do,” said Graves. “It’s good for my reputation.”

That got him the politely puzzled look.

“I’m the Director of Magical Security, and Head of Magical Law Enforcement,” Graves reminded him. He folded his arms across his chest and gave an exaggerated scowl. “Director Graves is a cold-hearted bastard, you know. Driven – you’d have to be, to be Madam President’s right hand man/rival – but you don’t want to get on his bad side. Did you hear what he _did_ to the Director of Covert Magical Investigations?” He let his voice fall into junior Auror Arceneaux’s warm Cajun accent; Graves had overheard her using just that description to some of the Auror trainees.

“Is that … are you _quoting_ someone?” Credence asked.

“Junior Auror Celeste Arceneaux,” Graves said. “To be fair, she didn’t realize I was right behind her when she was describing me to some Auror trainees.” He’d managed not to laugh at the look on her face when she realized exactly who was behind her, but it had taken some effort. “I thought she was going to pass out from sheer embarrassment. The trainees, too. Although I think _they_ thought I was going to explode. I’ve a bit of a temper sometimes, and the office gossips have turned it into something of a legend at MACUSA.”

“Did you?” Credence asked.

“Of course not. Arceneaux didn’t say anything that wasn’t true, and anyway, grousing about your boss is a time-honored tradition. Merlin knows I’ve done _my_ fair share of it over the years.”

“What did you do, then? You had to have done something; you wouldn’t be laughing about it, otherwise.”

“I’m not laughing,” Graves said. “That would be mean.”

“Your eyes are laughing,” Credence informed him. 

“Maybe I’m laughing a little,” Graves amended. “And I didn’t really do anything, either. I just gave her my best deadpan look and said, ‘will that be all, Auror Arceneaux?’ And she said, ‘sir, yes sir, sorry sir!’ and bolted, trainees on her heels. She apologized about it later, after she’d made full Auror. Waited till she’d made a big bust, too, just so she could apologize to me in person on a more equal footing.”

“See?” said Credence. “You _are_ nice.”

“Being mean to the junior Aurors is like kicking a crup,” protested Graves. “You’d have to be a bigger bastard than I am to do it.”

“What’s a crup?” 

“Kind of like a dog,” Graves said. “Good pets. Very loyal. Not fond of No-Maj’s, though.” That was putting it mildly.

The puzzled look came back. “What did you do to the Director of Covert Magical Investigations?”

Graves smirked, toothy and entirely smug. “Nothing he didn’t have coming.”

Credence poked him. “Percival,” he said, trying to sound stern. He wasn’t especially convincing, but Graves gave him points for trying.

“Director Fischer assumed that he could borrow my people for his operations with impunity. He also neglected to pay attention to the condition they were returned to me in. I simply corrected his assumptions.” Graves gave Credence the same innocent look he’d given Seraphina when she’d hauled him into her office to rake him over the coals for his behavior. It worked about as well on Credence as it had on Seraphina.

“What did you _actually_ do?”

Credence had good instincts, Graves noted. It went well with his memory and his attention to detail. He really would make a damn fine Auror.

He shrugged, utterly nonchalant. “Hauled him out of his chair and a foot off the ground – without magic. Then I Apparated to the top of the Woolworth building for a brief chat about what I’d do if he was foolish enough to let my people get hurt on his watch again.” Graves suspected the sheer, brute physicality of it frightened Fischer more than the threat of being dropped had. Fischer was used to proper wizarding duels. 

The Fischer line had always been short-sighted, though. Andrew Fischer was descended from one of the Twelve, just like Graves, but that was where any similarity between the two of them ended. Fisticuffs were a time-honored Graves tradition; Scourers didn’t always fight with magic, so the Graves’ wouldn’t either.

“You threatened to drop him off the roof,” said Credence.

“He’s a wizard! He’d have been fine.”

Credence stared at him.

“I did _tell_ you I wasn’t nice,” Graves said, a little reproachfully.

“I am _so_ glad Mr. Grindelwald foresaw a son and not a daughter,” Credence sighed. “You’d be a nightmare when boys started coming round to call on her.”

“What makes you think I won’t be a nightmare if boys start coming round to call on our son?” Graves asked. “Or girls. Whichever he prefers.”

Credence startled. “Because it’s wrong,” he said. “Men with men. And girls don’t court boys.”

“It’s only illegal if you’re a No-Maj,” Graves said. “It’s not especially common, with wizards, but it’s certainly not taboo. And I think you’ll find a young witch courts whomever she pleases.”

“Oh,” Credence said. “Mr. Grindelwald said that, too. Not the bit about witches, but the part about how it wasn’t wrong. I thought … I thought he lied about that, too. I thought he was just telling me what I wanted to hear.”

“He probably was,” said Graves. “But that doesn’t mean he was lying. The truth can be used to deceive just as well as a lie can.”

“Oh,” Credence said again. “We should … we should get some sleep, shouldn’t we?”

“Alright,” Graves said, frowning a little. Credence sounded a little rattled, but he didn’t want to push. Not now, when Credence finally seemed a little more settled.

He’d misstepped, somehow. He wasn’t sure where or how, but he had. 

Graves lay down on their cot next to Credence, keeping Credence tucked between himself and the wall. He’d make things right in the morning.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter contains the death of a minor OC, and a discussion that might be triggering for victims of domestic abuse. No actual violence or domestic abuse occurs, but I wanted to warn for it just in case. Send me a message on tumblr if you think you might need more details going in.

Credence didn’t mind being Mr. Grindelwald’s prisoner as much as Percival did. It was odd, to be physically caged and still freer than he’d ever been when he’d lived with Ma. As Mr. Grindelwald’s prisoner, he had decent meals and magic lessons and _Percival_ and absolutely none of it was sinful or wrong or likely to result in a belting. Credence didn’t entirely believe that none of it was sinful or wrong; a couple weeks of magic lessons and leisure didn’t erase a whole lifetime’s worth of painful learning. But Percival kept insisting that it wasn’t, and Percival had never lied to him or hurt him, so Credence tried to believe it for his sake. Maybe someday he really would.

They settled into a comfortable routine. Breakfast and magic lessons, and then Percival would exercise while Credence told him stories from the Bible. He’d learned to read the faint crease between Percival’s dark eyebrows as confused disbelief; Percival found the Bible fairly confusing in general, and things people – No-Maj’s – were willing to take as gospel even more so. That seemed fair to Credence, seeing as he found the things wizards accepted as perfectly normal fairly confusing too. 

They usually had more magic lessons after that, although sometimes they were lessons on How the Wizarding World Worked. Credence had a pretty good idea about how MACUSA was organized, and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in particular, but the more practical aspects of wizarding life, like the spells for cooking and cleaning and what wizarding currency was worth were all theoretical.

“You’re clever,” Percival told him. “You’ll pick it up in no time, once we’re free.”

“If you say so,” Credence said, ducking his head so Percival wouldn’t see how he glowed at the praise. Percival saw it anyway, if his smile was any indicator.

Credence liked the magic lessons, although none of the other spells came quite as easily as _lumos_ had. The spell to lift objects with magic had a ridiculous number of nonsensical syllables, and learning to perform it properly had resulted in the accidental explosion of the pillow on their cot.

“This is stupid,” Credence said, frustrated. “I’m stupid, and I’m never going to be able to do this!”

“You’re not stupid,” Percival said, batting feathers away from his face. “You’re trying to learn magic without a wand, behind magic-suppressing wards. You’ll be a powerful wizard, away from both of those things, and one with very precise control. You just need to keep practicing.” He looked over at the pillow, which reassembled itself like it had never been damaged at all.

“How did you do that?” Credence asked.

“Fix the pillow? Just a simple repairing charm. _Reparo,”_ Percival said.

“Can I learn that one instead? It seems … more useful, than being able to lift things.”

“We’ll have to come back to it eventually,” Percival warned, but he taught Credence the repairing charm anyway. It was _much_ more useful than being able to lift things with magic, which Credence didn’t really see the point of. He had two perfectly good hands to lift things with; using magic seemed a little lazy.

Sometimes Percival told him stories after supper. He had a nice voice for stories, sonorous and deep and kind. He knew lots of stories about the Round Table and Camelot. Credence pictured Percival telling stories of the Round Table to their son, editing the gory bits in and out as he aged. 

It should have been an impossible dream, but it was all too easy to imagine. 

Nothing nice lasted forever, though. Credence had been stupid to believe it would.

Mr. Grindelwald appeared in a black swirl, wearing Percival’s face and a thunderous scowl. “Who the hell is Norton?” he demanded. 

“No one,” Percival said, rising to his feet and shoving Credence behind him. 

“He knows you well enough,” Mr. Grindelwald hissed. “He was suspicious when he stopped by your office today. _Who is he?”_

“Norton, you idiot,” Percival said, despair and rage thick in his voice. “Norton was my last protégé. He’s _supposed_ to be in San Francisco, chasing potions smugglers. I was grooming him to head up the West Coast office, but I wanted him to get a little seasoning first. I sent him to San Francisco so he could learn about his territory. He was supposed to _stay_ there.”

“He didn’t,” Mr. Grindelwald snarled. “He’s here, in New York. He wants to have lunch with you tomorrow.”

“Okay,” said Percival. “I can tell you whatever you need to know to fool him. It shouldn’t be any harder than fooling Picquery or my team.”

“Oh, Percival,” Mr. Grindelwald sighed, sounding a little pitying. “It’s far too late for that.”

“What did you do?” Percival demanded. 

“It’s not what I’ve done,” Mr. Grindelwald told him. “So much as what I’m going to do.”

“He’s twenty-five – practically still a kid! He doesn’t know anything. All he has are suspicions, and those are easy enough to soothe. You don’t need to do _anything_ to him. Just drop one or two in-jokes and send him packing. He’s no threat from the other side of the country.”

“We both know that’s not true,” Mr. Grindelwald said, and disappeared again.

Percival slammed his fists into the magical barrier, over and over again until his hands were raw and bloody. “Grindelwald!” he roared. “Come back here, damn you! GRINDELWALD!”

“Percival,” Credence said, frightened. “Percival, _stop.”_ He tried to tug Percival away from the barrier, so he’d stop hurting himself, and Percival shook him off with enough force to send Credence sprawling.

“Shit,” Percival said, once he realized what he’d done. He knelt down next to Credence and reached for him.

Credence flinched. He couldn’t help it. He hadn’t been hit in what felt like forever, but he was still afraid of the next blow, and Percival was already so _angry._

 _“Fuck,”_ hissed Percival, moving away to punch the magical barrier straight on. Credence thought he heard the sound of bones breaking when the hit connected, but Percival didn’t seem to notice. “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding wretched. “I didn’t mean to do that. It was – instinct. Which sounds like a stupid excuse. I told you I’d never hurt you and I _meant_ it, it’s just – my body moves ahead of my brain sometimes. I’m so, so sorry, Credence. Are you alright?”

Credence got to his feet again and dusted his pants off. “I’m fine,” he said. His tailbone was a little sore, but it was nothing compared to what Ma used to do. He felt stupid. A little fall shouldn’t have startled him so badly. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. I fell.”

“Because I _shoved_ you,” Percival said.

“I _fell,”_ Credence insisted. “And I’m fine. Are _you_ okay?”

“No,” Percival said, bleak. “I’m not going to be okay for awhile. Norton’s clever, is the thing. I wouldn’t have picked him for my protégé if he wasn’t. He’ll see through Grindelwald, and Grindelwald is going to murder him for it.”

“Were you and Norton…” Credence trailed off, because he didn’t know how to ask if they’d been lovers. Percival hadn’t mentioned any other lovers. He wouldn’t, because he was a gentleman, but he was powerful and handsome and kind, and Credence knew that he had to have had other lovers before.

“Intimate? No. That would have been an abuse of my position. He was my protégé; his life and his career were under my protection. It was my honor to train him, to make him a better Auror – one who could head up the West Coast office in a few years time, once he had the connections to make a difference. I suppose … I suppose I thought of him as a son. Or maybe a younger brother. My legacy, in MACUSA.” Percival laughed bitterly. “Grindelwald stole my face, my name, my rank. And now he’s going to steal that too. _He’ll_ be my legacy. Percival Graves, kidnapped and held captive by the Dark Wizard Grindelwald, who traded information for safety until Grindelwald no longer had a use for him and killed him.”

“That’s not true,” Credence said. His fear had a panicked edge to it now, because Percival sounded _defeated,_ like he’d given up on fighting, and that wasn’t who Percival was. Percival was a warrior; he didn’t know how to stop fighting, much less give up on it. “That’s not how history will remember you.”

“Isn’t it?” Percival asked, a sardonic twist to his mouth.

“No,” Credence said firmly. 

What had Percival said? They were partners. That meant if Percival didn’t believe, then Credence would believe enough for both of them. That was what partners did.

“You’ll be remembered as the head of Magical Law Enforcement, who survived months and months as Mr. Grindelwald’s prisoner and escaped,” Credence said, with a surety he felt all the way down to his bones. He believed in Percival, without even the faintest smidgen of doubt. “And if that isn’t enough, then you’ll be remembered as a good man – a good father.”

“You sound very certain of that. For all you know, I’ll be a terrible father.” There was a glimmer of hope in Percival’s voice. He didn’t believe Credence, but he wanted to.

“No, you won’t. You look after me, and you’re nice to your nieces and nephews and the junior Aurors, even if you say you aren’t. You’re going to be the reason our son grows up loved and protected and _safe.”_

“My track record at keeping people safe isn’t all that great at the moment,” Percival said.

“Because you’re a prisoner,” Credence said. “It isn’t fair to think you can keep people safe when _you_ aren’t.”

Percival sat down on the floor next to their cot. “Fuck,” he said. _“Norton.”_

“I’m sorry,” Credence said, taking a seat next to him. He wanted to hold Percival, but he wasn’t sure Percival would let him. Percival still seemed like he was a hairsbreadth away from lashing out again.

They sat together like that without speaking for what felt like hours. Eventually, Credence got up and fetched the water pitcher, pouring it over the rags from Percival’s old shirt and dabbing at Percival’s hands. 

Percival seemed to notice that they were bloody and broken for the first time. “Damn,” he said, looking over the damage. He pulled his hands back and flexed his fingers experimentally, testing the range of movement with a wince.

“Let me help you,” Credence said quietly. “Please.”

Percival offered his hands up again and let Credence wash them clean without a sound.

“Can you heal them?” asked Credence. “The way you healed my back?”

“Bones are tricky,” Percival said. “Flesh wounds aren’t as complicated. It’s only a couple of metacarpals; those just need time to mend.” He sighed. “It does need splinting, though. _Ferula.”_ Bandages and a splint appeared, wrapping his palm and forearm lightly. 

Once that was taken care of, he looked Credence in the eye. “I’m sorry I lost control,” he said. “I regret my behavior. It was never my intention to hurt you.”

“You don’t need to be sorry for anything,” Credence told him. “You didn’t hurt me. And it’s alright to be upset sometimes.”

A muscle in Percival’s jaw tightened. “Not for me, it isn’t.”

“Why not?” asked Credence, baffled. Percival wasn’t like him. No one would hurt Percival, if he was upset or angry or frightened. Percival was strong enough to keep people from beating him.

“When I’m upset, I make mistakes. And I’m far enough up the chain of command that when I make mistakes, people die. Just like Norton.” Percival sighed. “I’m sorry, Credence. I’m poor company, right now. I think … I think I’d like to be left alone, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Credence said, swallowing hard around the sudden burst of hurt. “I’ll just be – quiet.” 

Quiet was the best he could do, since it wasn’t like he could leave and give Percival space. He moved away from Percival and curled up on their cot, making himself as small a presence as possible. 

He wished he’d been able to comfort Percival, the way Percival had comforted him. He felt stupid and useless. Percival would probably be better off without him.

Thinking about life without Percival hurt almost as bad as getting belted. Credence decided he wasn’t going to think about it at all. Not unless Percival said he wanted Credence gone when they were both free. For now, all he could do was pray for Norton’s soul, since praying for his safety didn’t seem likely to do much good.

Credence had no rosary of his own, but he could recall the weight of the one in the church, the way the smooth wooden beads felt in his hands. He closed his eyes and started praying the rosary, letting the familiar litanies was his mind clean of his hurts. 

This, at least, was something he could do.

 

*

 

Percival went through their routine the next morning like nothing was wrong. He didn’t say anything about Norton and neither did Credence, but Credence felt it linger between them like a scar. He wanted to ask Percival to tell him about Norton, the way Percival had asked him to talk about Modesty. Talking about Modesty helped, but Modesty wasn’t _dead,_ and Credence thought Percival’s grief was still too awful and new. He was afraid to make things worse. Percival didn’t seem like he wanted to talk about it, he reasoned. Maybe the best thing he could do was respect Percival’s wishes.

He accepted half of Percival’s porridge without protest, even though he didn’t like the way he could see Percival’s ribs clearly beneath his skin when he exercised with his shirt off. And he worked diligently on _wingardium leviosa,_ which was rapidly becoming Credence’s least favorite spell. He’d mostly managed to stop making things explode by accident, but his ability to make things levitate was wobbly at best. 

Credence kept quiet while Percival exercised, because none of the Bible stories he knew were likely to offer Percival much comfort. He wanted to tell Percival to go easy on his broken hand, but Percival just set his jaw and did push-up’s like the pain was something to be conquered. Maybe to Percival, it was.

Aelinor Bluebird wouldn’t approve; Credence was sure of that. _He_ certainly didn’t, even if it wasn’t his place to say so.

Except maybe it was, a little. That was something partners did, wasn’t it? 

He looked over at Percival, the words heavy on his tongue, and felt them crumble into dust. Percival was kind and gentle and he wouldn’t hurt Credence, Credence was _sure_ of it. But some part of him still wondered if Percival would turn on him – if there was a limit to what Percival’s kindness would tolerate.

He went back to casting _lumos_ instead, stringing little balls of light all around their cell like stars. It was hard to see the constellations in the city, so he gave up on trying to recreate them after making the two or three he knew and just let the little balls of light float into random shapes. 

It would be prettier, he thought, if he could make the lights different colors. He tried making the lights glow blue and almost succeeded when Percival said, “That looks like the Big Dipper.”

“Which one?” Credence asked.

“That one, right there,” Percival said, pointing to the boxy shape with it’s tail of stars that was visible all year round, on nights when the sky was clear.

“Oh,” said Credence. “Is that what it’s called?” He wondered if that was a wizarding thing; naming the shapes of the stars in the sky. Surely no one else would be fanciful enough to do so.

“Yes,” said Percival. He nudged one of the lights into a better position and said, “You can use the Big Dipper to find the North Star. It’s that one, right here,” he said, pointing to the light he’d moved. “You can use it to orient yourself for true north, and find your way home from there.”

Credence gave the star/ball of light a dubious look, unsure of how, exactly, he was supposed to use it to find his way home. Maybe that was a wizarding thing too. A spell, or something.

Percival tapped one of the balls of light at the front base of the shape he’d called the Big Dipper. “This is the star called Merak. I have a friend who was named for it. Merak Black,” he said, by way of clarification. “A British wizard I fought alongside in the war. The noble and ancient House of Black favors naming its children after constellations and stars. A ridiculous affectation, if you ask me, but I was named for a Merlinian legend, so I’ve no room to throw stones.”

It was the first thing Percival had said all day that really sounded like _Percival,_ and not the hollowed out shell of him.

It sounded, Credence thought, a little like an apology. He wasn’t sure what made him so sure of that, but he was. Percival had already apologized yesterday, even though he hadn’t needed to but this – this was a real apology _for_ yesterday, even if Percival never used the words ‘I’m sorry.’

It made Credence want to hiss in frustration, the way Mr. Grindelwald did, because Percival had nothing to be sorry for. They were partners, weren’t they? Partners didn’t need to apologize to one another for _feeling_ things.

Maybe Percival only meant that they were partners when he was taking care of Credence and not the other way around.

Credence set his jaw, stubborn. He was Percival’s _partner,_ not his dependent. He’d find a way to make Percival see that. He didn’t know how, but he would. He had magic. Nothing was impossible with magic.

For now, he needed to make sure that Percival understood his apology – however unnecessary – was accepted.

“You fought in the war?” he asked, genuinely curious. Percival had mentioned that he’d been to war before, but Credence had assumed he meant a wizarding war, like Mr. Grindelwald wanted to start. But if Percival had fought with British wizards overseas, then maybe he meant the war to end all wars instead.

Percival hummed his agreement. “The tail end of it, yeah.”

“Why?” Credence asked. “It was a No-Maj war, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t it have been easier to just stay out of it?”

“Probably,” admitted Percival. “But there were wizards from Britain and Germany involved already, so when the No-Maj’s started shipping people overseas, a number of us went too.”

“Why?” Credence asked again.

“Because people were dying,” Percival said. “And we could make a difference.”

He made it sound so simple.

“You’re a hero,” Credence said.

Percival snorted. “Hardly. I fought with a couple of them, though. My friend Theseus, now _he’s_ a real hero. You wouldn’t believe the number of people he saved, or the difference he made with the war effort. He was fearless. Probably still is. It’s like the part of his brain that makes other people feel fear just doesn’t connect. It was _incredibly frustrating_ to watch his back, let me tell you. You’d think, _there’s no way a sane man would attempt that_ and then there he’d be, Theseus Fucking Scamander, doing his damndest to perform the impossible or die trying. Harry and Liam eventually gave up trying to keep up with him and just left wrangling Theseus to Merak and me. We were the purebloods, or so Liam claimed. Might as well let us all be crazy together.”

A pureblood meant someone who came from a wizarding family, Credence knew. American wizards didn’t put quite as much stock in such things as the European ones did, Percival had told him, but then again, Percival’s ancestors went back to the Twelve. 

“Was Liam No-Maj born?” Credence asked.

“Him and Harry both,” Percival confirmed. “And Irish, to boot. They used to have the most incredible rows with Merak, who was as English as it was possible to get and an aristocrat on top of it all. Things between their countries were … a bit strained, at that point, you could say. But they were all Hogwarts boys, in the end, and they knew their duty.”

“Hogwarts?” Credence prompted.

“The school for witches and wizards in the United Kingdom,” Percival explained. “They were all Hogwarts alums. Theseus and Liam were in the same House at school, and so were Merak and Harry. That’s the sort of bond that lingers.”

“Keeping up with a war hero probably makes you a hero, too,” Credence pointed out.

“You wouldn’t say that if you knew Theseus,” Percival said with a smile. “Oh, the rest of got medals too, but I think it was just because we were standing next to him. Theseus is a real hero. Me? I’m just the same man I’ve always been.”

He meant that he was a warrior. For the first time, Credence _didn’t_ believe what Percival said. He was quite certain that a man who fought because it was the right thing to do – because he believed that by fighting he could make a difference – was a hero, no matter what he chose to call it.

Percival was a warrior, a hero and a powerful wizard, kind and protective and good. If he’d lived during King Arthur’s times, Credence had no doubt that he would’ve been Arthur’s right hand and not Lancelot.

Credence had no idea how to be worthy of someone like Percival. Mr. Grindelwald and Percival both said that he was powerful, but surely a powerful wizard could master a spell as simple as _wingardium leviosa._

He wanted to be worthy. He wanted Percival to want to keep him for his own sake, and not just because of their son. He wanted to wake up next to Percival in a proper bed, and to have lunch with him in MACUSA’s commissary when Percival was in between meetings. He wanted to welcome Percival home in the evenings, and have Percival in their bed at night. He wanted more strong sons and daughters who would court whomever they pleased, so that no one would ever think of Mr. Grindelwald as Percival’s legacy.

His hand came to rest on his belly, instinctive and unthinking. One son was a good start.

Mostly, Credence admitted to himself, what he wanted was Percival. The admission should have felt shameful, but he reveled in it. 

Percival watched him, something dark and possessive in his eyes when he saw Credence’s hand against his belly.

“What’s going on in that head of yours?” asked Percival.

“I was thinking about our son,” said Credence. “And you.” He wasn’t quite brave enough to say exactly _what_ he’d been thinking about Percival. Percival was too kind to laugh at him for his presumptions, but Credence suspected his kindness would hurt worse than his scorn.

“Ah,” said Percival, looking pleased. His pleasure melted into an odd sort of hesitation. Credence had never seen that look on his face before. “May I ask a favor?”

Credence blinked. “Anything,” he promised.

“You should be careful who you say that sort of thing to,” Percival warned. “Some people will take advantage.”

“You wouldn’t,” Credence pointed out.

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” muttered Percival. “It’s just … I’d like to hold you, if I may. I think … I think a bit of human connection might be good for me.”

“Oh,” said Credence, feeling a pleased flush spread over his cheeks. “Yes, please. I mean, I think I’d like that too.” 

Percival opened his arms and Credence went to him willingly, letting Percival tuck him in close and breathing in the scent of him. He smelled good, because Percival always smelled good. Credence privately thought of his scent as smoke and something wild. He hadn’t decided what sort of predatory beast Percival was. Most of the time he thought it was a wolf, but sometimes he thought it might be something else entirely – something magical.

Credence gloried in how safe he felt. Surely, the safest place in the world to be was in Percival’s arms. The splint felt awkward against his back, but everywhere else he was surrounded by whipcord muscle and warmth. It was lovely.

It would be better, he thought, if Percival kissed him. Except Percival hadn’t tried to touch him like that at all in the whole month or so they’d been trapped together. Maybe Percival didn’t want him the way Credence wanted Percival. 

Credence resolved to bury the impulse and not press for more. He didn’t want to be greedy, because greed was a sin. So was gluttony. Asking Percival for more would surely be both.

“You’re shaking,” Percival murmured, his voice warm and right next to Credence’s ear. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Credence lied.

“Credence,” Percival said firmly.

Credence couldn’t help the full-body shudder that went through him at that. Percival being commanding was more attractive than he wanted to admit to.

“May I ask a favor?” he asked, echoing Percival’s own words.

“Anything,” Percival said. 

Credence summoned every bit of daring he had. “Kiss me?” he asked.

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Percival asked.

“God, yes,” said Credence, flushing with embarrassment. 

“Good,” said Percival, and kissed him, careful and sweet and slow. 

Credence melted into it, letting Percival sneak his tongue into Credence’s mouth, stealing the air from his lungs. He was still careful about it, tracing over Credence’s teeth like he wanted to memorize the shape of them.

Credence wanted him more than he’d ever wanted anything in his whole life. He leaned in when Percival pulled back, chasing more kisses. 

Percival tugged him down onto their cot and went back to kissing him, holding his body over Credence’s like a shield. He pressed a kiss to the curve of Credence’s neck, pausing to suck on the skin there until Credence felt tingly and good all over.

“You have no idea,” Percival said, punctuating the words with a faint scrape of his teeth over sensitized skin, “how much I’ve wanted to do this.”

“You could have,” Credence gasped. “I wanted you to. I’ll always want you to.”

“I needed your permission, first.”

“Permission granted,” Credence said firmly. “For anything you want to do.”

“Anything?” Percival asked, his voice a low rasping purr.

 _“Anything,”_ Credence swore.

“We’re going to talk about what _anything_ means later,” Percival said, leaving love bites along Credence’s neck and collarbones. “For now, though, this is enough.” He pulled Credence close to him and just held on, pressing kisses against whatever part of Credence he could reach.

Credence curled into him, drunk on his presence and his kisses, his heart beating out _Percival, Percival, Percival._

For now, he thought, giddy with the promise of more, this is enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, apparently I went from chapter 8 to chapter 10 when I was breaking the story into coherent chapters, which is why the chapter total dropped from 12 to 11. Sorry guys.
> 
> Information on Ilvermorny is, like the founding of MACUSA, taken and paraphrased from the Harry Potter wiki. I am, as always, happy to edit further if it bugs anyone to avoid gross acts of plagiarism, because that is not okay.

Graves relished in being able to kiss Credence any time he wanted. It soothed the savage, animalistic part of his brain that raged against being held captive and Gellert fucking Grindelwald’s entire goddamn existence. (He normally kept that part of himself hidden and suppressed, because he was a Graves and a gentleman, but it got harder and harder to bury, the longer Grindelwald held him prisoner. If it wasn’t for Credence, Graves thought he’d be nothing better than the savage Grindelwald liked to say he was by now.)

He wanted to do more than just kiss Credence. He wanted to touch Credence all over, to find out if his memories of what Credence liked were still true and how long it would take Credence to fall apart beneath his touch. Then he wanted to do it all over again with his mouth.

He wanted to lose himself in Credence, to forget the ever-present rage at Norton’s murder in Credence’s body. He wanted the joy Credence took from the act to soothe his rough edges and make him feel like a man again and not a monster.

They hadn’t talked about what _anything_ meant, though. Not yet. And that meant Graves would content himself with kisses, and be grateful for them, which he was.

Regular meals that weren’t watered down until they had no nutrition at all had done Credence some good. He’d put on a little weight. Not enough, Graves thought, but some. Enough to lose the sharp bony angles and put a healthy flush on his cheeks, so that he was as lovely as Graves had always known he’d be. Having some of the terrible haircut grow out helped some too. Once they were free, Credence would probably have his pick of suitors.

 _Mine,_ Graves thought, pressing a kiss to the top of Credence’s head while he slept. Credence was his. He didn’t know how he’d done it, but he’d wooed and won him, and he’d be damned if he let anyone take Credence from him now, unless that was what Credence wanted.

Credence stirred, opening his eyes.

Graves kissed him again. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” Credence said. Normally, he leaned in for more kisses, and the two of them lazed together until the porridge bowls appeared. 

“Credence?” Graves asked, when a faint, concerned furrow appeared between Credence’s eyebrows. 

“I don’t –” Credence began, before he blanched white and practically shoved Graves off of their cot in his scramble to make it to the water closet before he emptied his stomach.

“Oh,” said Graves, dusting himself off. He went into the water closet and wet one of the small towels, placing it on the back of Credence’s neck. Dindrane had found it soothing when she’d had morning sickness. Although hers had been less morning and more every-hour-of-the-day sickness. 

“I don’t feel well,” Credence moaned, retching again.

Graves rubbed up and down his back. “I know, darling,” he murmured. He grabbed the water pitcher. “Here, rinse your mouth out. It’ll help.”

Credence just moaned and rested his head against the porcelain.

Graves poured water into his palm and fed Credence small sips of it. Credence made a face and spat into the toilet again, but he let Graves feed him more water anyway.

“Do you want to go back to bed?” Graves asked.

“No,” Credence said. “Was there something wrong with dinner? Are _you_ alright?”

“Fine,” Grave said, marveling all over again at the strength of Credence’s heart. “But I’m also not the one who’s pregnant.”

That got him an actual frown. A _real_ one, not the politely puzzled look Credence used as a substitute. “What does my being with child have to do with dinner being spoiled?” Credence asked, sounding plaintive.

“Dinner wasn’t spoiled,” Graves told him. “Morning sickness is a symptom of pregnancy. It’s a shift in the body’s hormones. I don’t know much about it, unfortunately.” 

He wished he’d paid more attention to Dindrane’s tendency to overshare during pregnancy. He’d taken to fleeing the room once she’d gotten started while she was pregnant with Gwen, having learned from her pregnancy with Arthur that when the oversharing started, he was likely to find the details _extremely traumatizing._ Dindrane believed that if she had to suffer, everyone else ought to suffer with her. Graves understood her point, but there were some things about one’s sister a man simply did not want to know.

“It’s normal,” he assured Credence. “It means the child is healthy.” Or at least, he thought it did. Dindrane had mentioned as much, although now he couldn’t remember if it was fact or her ranting about old wives tales and superstition.

“That’s good,” Credence said faintly, pillowing his face on his arms and looking pathetic.

“Come on,” Graves said. “Let’s get you back to bed. You’ll feel better if you lie down.”

“I still don’t feel well,” Credence warned. “I might be sick again.”

“If you get sick again, I’ll clean it up. The cleaning spell’s a simple one, remember? For now, you’ll rest easier if you’re comfortable.”

“Ugh,” said Credence. “This only happens in the mornings? You called it morning sickness.”

“Er,” said Graves. “The name is … not entirely accurate.”

“Ugh,” Credence said again. He let Graves put him back to bed and curled up in a miserable ball.

Graves wasn’t entirely certain Credence would be okay with him hovering. He _wanted_ to hover; he wanted to make sure that Credence and their child were safe. He also wanted to feed Credence ginger tea and dry toast until the nausea went away. Dindrane had let him hover, sometimes. (The rest of the time she’d been quick to send him on his way with a stinging hex or a thrown object.)

He hated not being able to provide Credence with ginger tea and dry toast and anti-nausea potions. He wasn’t entirely certain Grindelwald would be willing to provide them; he didn’t care much for the health of the carrier, so long as his prophesied general was alright. Graves might be able to bargain with him, assuming he could keep his head.

Graves did not know if his self control was good enough to keep his head while Norton’s blood was still so fresh on Grindelwald’s hands.

There was nothing he could do for Norton now except avenge him. He had to do better by Credence and their son.

Graves imagined breaking Grindelwald’s neck with his bare hands. If he’d mastered the ability to cast a patronus without his wand, he was fairly certain that image would’ve created a patronus strong enough to send a message through Grindelwald’s wards. Something to work on, he thought.

He let his magic well up and smashed it against Grindelwald’s wards. It wouldn’t break them – he’d tried, in the early days of his captivity. He’d kept it up for fifteen minutes once, and was reasonably certain he was close to freedom. And then Grindelwald had showed up and used the Cruciatus on him until Graves was too weak to try again for days. He had, as soon as he’d had the strength for it, but Grindelwald had shown up before he’d kept up his assault for more than a minute. He’d tried half-drowning Graves, that time. The time after that had been suffocation. Eventually, Graves concluded that Grindelwald would continue to appear before he had any luck breaking the wards, and had shelved that plan to be used if he was desperate.

Still, it was a useful method of summoning his captor.

Grindelwald appeared thirty seconds later, looking rumpled from sleep and ferociously irritated. 

_“Crucio,”_ he hissed.

“Stop,” Credence begged, his voice breaking. “Please.” He crawled out of bed to kneel next to Percival, still looking faintly green and absolutely miserable.

It was possible Graves had not thought this plan through. He hadn’t meant to upset Credence further.

“You are beginning to test my patience, Percival,” Grindelwald hissed. “I thought I’d broken you of this months ago.”

“You didn’t exactly leave me with any way to summon room service, now did you?” Graves said, levering himself into a sitting position with Credence’s help.

 _“Room service,”_ snarled Grindelwald.

Well, someone wasn’t a morning person.

“Credence has morning sickness,” Graves informed him. “He needs ginger tea, and dry toast. And an anti-nausea potion, although I can’t recall which ones are safe for pregnant wizards. You should be pleased, it means your general is healthy.”

Grindelwald continued to stare at him in outrage. Graves suspected he was talking himself into an extended torture session at some point in the future. He really hadn’t missed those.

“Light snacks would also be helpful,” Graves continued. “Apples and bananas and carrots and the like. Fresh lemons, too. Cold porridge is better than warm, and it definitely needs honey in it.”

Credence pressed his face against Graves’ back. _“Please_ stop talking about food,” he moaned.

“Warmer clothes and bedding would be helpful, too,” Graves said.

“Is there anything else?” Grindelwald asked, too outraged to be menacing. He sounded more sarcastic than anything else, which Graves found entertaining. “A key to your cell, perhaps? Hot baths? Maybe a new book to read?”

“I wouldn’t say no to any of those things, if they were on offer,” Graves said cheerfully. “But I’ll settle for things Credence can eat.”

Credence made a faint noise of protest. “I don’t want to eat anything ever again,” he muttered, low enough that only Graves heard him.

“You’ve gone out of your mind,” Grindelwald said. “It’s not unexpected, although this particular madness is … unprecedented.”

“That’s a bit insulting, coming from you,” Graves said.

“And insulting _my_ sanity is not likely to get you what you want,” Grindelwald retorted. 

Graves sighed. “Valid point. Old habits, and all that. Sorry.”

Grindelwald stared at him, clearly off-kilter. “You’re sorry.”

“For insulting your sanity just now,” Graves clarified. “Not any of the other times. Seeing as I do want something from you at the moment.”

Grindelwald looked like he was still having doubts about Graves’ sanity.

“Look, I’m trying to be helpful here,” Graves said, a bit impatiently. “You want your general to be healthy? I want the same thing for _my son._ And out of the two of us, who has nieces and nephews and who has no family to speak of? Trust me when I say that I know what I’m talking about.”

“You do seem bizarrely knowledgeable,” Grindelwald conceded. “But what makes you think that dragging me out of bed at an ungodly hour and summoning me like room service was ever going to result in me giving you what you wanted?”

“Because it’s not _for_ me,” Graves pointed out. “It’s for Credence, and your general.”

Grindelwald narrowed his eyes. “It kills you to refer to him as such, doesn’t it?” he asked, all silken menace. _“My_ general. And not _your_ son.”

Fucking hell. Grindelwald was the sort of predator who liked to play with his food. And he said _Graves_ was a savage. 

“Yes,” Graves snarled, levering himself to his feet. He helped Credence back into bed when Credence flailed, off-kilter at the loss of support. _“Yes,_ it fucking kills me that _my son_ is _your general._ I didn’t believe in your bullshit prophecy and now here we are, with two innocent lives on the line. So forgive me for wanting to do whatever it takes to keep those lives safe for as long as I can.”

Grindelwald liked that Graves was angry. He liked that Graves was frustrated and a little despairing; Graves could see it.

Graves could work with that.

“I want Credence to be healthy enough to deliver your general safely,” he said, angry and pleading. “And that means he needs foods he can keep down and more of it than you’ve been giving us. Look at him – it’s been a month of regular meals and he’s still skin and bones. If he doesn’t put on more weight, he’ll die birthing your general and that – _Fuck.”_ He didn’t say that he wouldn’t be able to bear it. He didn’t think he needed to.

“Why, Percival,” Grindelwald purred, the way he always did when he thought he’d gotten what he wanted out of Graves. “Don’t tell me you’ve gone and gotten attached.”

“It’d be a waste of resources, if nothing else,” Graves said, averting his gaze. “If our bloodlines are good enough to produce one general, why not another? An heir and a spare, isn’t that what your lot calls it?”

“Don’t pretend you Americans aren’t just as determined to preserve your bloodlines,” Grindelwald scoffed. “And fine. I take your point. It seems a simple enough request. But Percival?”

“Yes?” Graves asked, wary.

“Beg,” Grindelwald commanded, the way he would a dog.

Fucking sadist.

“Please,” Graves said, going to his knees. “Please, make sure Credence and the child get enough to eat. Please, make sure that they’ll both be healthy enough to survive delivery – I beg of you, Grindelwald. Show mercy. They’re innocents. _Please.”_ He looked up at Grindelwald. “I’m begging you on my knees, please show Credence and your general that you can be kind to those you consider your own. If my son is your general, then he’s _yours,_ and as his carrier, Credence is too. You have a responsibility to them both. Please, please, be kind.”

“Oh, very well,” Grindelwald said, with false magnanimity. He waved his hand and cold porridge and fresh fruits appeared from Graves’ larder. “Since you asked so nicely.”

“Thank you,” Graves said, and meant it.

“Percival?” Grindelwald asked, pausing on the way back up the stairs. 

“What?” Graves asked.

“The next time you want something from me, do try a little humility first. I think you’ll find it works better than sarcasm.”

“I thought you enjoyed our little tête-à-tête’s,” said Graves.

 _“Ne spirare,”_ said Grindelwald. 

The last time Grindelwald had done this, he’d let Graves choke until he passed out. Graves hadn’t enjoyed the experience. He didn’t particularly care for it this time, either, not the least of which because Credence went more than a little hysterical when Graves started turning blue. 

_“Finite incantatem,”_ Grindelwald said.

“Fuck,” Graves said, when he could breathe again. He pushed himself upright again, still breathing hard. “In the future,” he said, voice raspy, “I’d take it as a kindness if you’d hold these little corrective behavioral sessions out of Credence’s sight. It upsets him.”

Grindelwald smirked, amused. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he said, and stomped back up the stairs.

“Tell me you didn’t mean it,” Credence said. He still looked a little hysterical, but he had the sense to wait until the door closed behind Grindelwald to say anything. He fisted his hands in Graves’ shirt. “Tell me you don’t really think I’m Mr. Grindelwald’s, Percival, _please._ I don’t _want_ to be Mr. Grindelwald’s.”

“Of course not,” Graves said, catching hold of Credence’s hands with his own. He pressed a desperate, claiming kiss against Credence’s mouth. “You’re not his, you’re _mine._ You’ll _never_ be his, not while I have breath in my body to stop him.” He pressed kisses to Credence’s tearstained cheeks, his nose, his chin, and then back to his mouth again. _“Mine,_ you hear me? For as long as you want me, you’re mine and I’m yours. I just had to tell him what he wanted to hear to get you better food.”

“I don’t care about better food, as long as I have you,” Credence said, a little mulish.

 _“I_ do,” Graves said firmly. “I’m sorry I sprang that on you. I should’ve told you what my plan was. But you needed the right things to eat, for you and our son to be healthy.” He kissed Credence again. “I don’t know how you put up with me,” he said. “I keep making mistakes and upsetting you.”

Credence shoved him away and sat down hard on the cot. “I don’t care if you upset me!” he snapped. “I don’t need you to protect me from my _feelings,_ Percival. I’m your _partner,_ remember?”

“Of course,” Graves said, a little bewildered by the show of temper. He liked it, and everything it meant, but he didn’t understand what he’d done to set it off.

He’d thought Credence’s personality was too even-keel to have the sort of mood swings Dindrane had. Evidently he was very wrong about that.

“Then try treating me like one! I’m _with_ child, not _a_ child, and it would be nice if you treated me that way!”

“Alright,” Graves said cautiously. “Is there anything in particular you’d like me to do?”

Credence poked him in the chest. “Stop trying to shield me from Mr. Grindelwald at your own expense. He won’t hurt me. Not while I’m carrying his general.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Graves muttered.

“I’m an investment, you said so yourself. Either I have value to him because of our son or I don’t, but I don’t want you getting hurt for my sake.”

“That seems … reasonable,” said Graves, who was starting to think he’d made a grave misstep somewhere along the way. He did not, in fact, think this was reasonable at all, but he knew better than to say so.

“And you could try leaning on me, every once in awhile,” Credence said, with tremulous daring. “I wanted to comfort you, for Norton, the way you did for me with Modesty, and you pushed me away. That’s not what partners do, is it?”

Well, fuck, Graves thought. “No,” he said. “No, it isn’t.”

That was the crux of it, he thought. He wanted Credence to have choices, once they were both free. That was why he kept trying to explain how the wizarding world worked, and teach Credence the spells he’d need to control his magic. It seemed Credence wanted those choices too, and he didn’t want them as charity. He didn’t understand that Graves would’ve given him anything, so long as it would make him happy, and that it wouldn’t be charity because Graves was so fucking in love with him that it _hurt._

He’d only just gotten permission to kiss Credence, though. Now was hardly an appropriate time for confessions of love.

“I’m sorry,” he said, as plainly and honestly as he could. His team would have been amazed. Graves rarely apologized, except when he was exceptionally in the wrong. Oh, he atoned for lashing out, generally with lavish gifts, but he hated actually saying the words. He’d used them and meant them more with Credence than he had with anyone else alive, save Dindrane and maybe Seraphina. “I’m an overprotective ass sometimes. It’s instinct, which doesn’t make it any better, and certainly doesn’t excuse it, but –”

“It’s who you are,” Credence said. “I know that, Percival. All I’m asking is for you to see me for who _I_ am.”

“I see you,” Graves told him. “You’re magnificent.”

Credence huffed a laugh. The adrenaline crash obviously made him a little peaky, because he went pale and bolted for the water closet again. “Maybe Mr. Grindelwald is right,” he said. “If you think this –” he flapped a hand, indicating his sweaty pale face and the toilet “– is magnificent, you’re out of your mind.”

Graves stared at him. Was that a joke? By Excalibur, it was. Merlin and Morgana and all of Arthur’s knights, he loved watching Credence’s confidence unfold, and the man he’d become once he was free. It really was magnificent.

“Anyone who can keep up with Theseus Scamander is a little crazy by necessity,” he allowed. “But only a truly insane man would see you as anything less than magnificent, Credence.”

Credence snorted, and regretted it a second later, if the face he made was any indicator. Graves fetched him some ginger tea – in an actual teacup, wonder of wonders – and went to go hover like a proper expectant father.

*

Credence did _not_ enjoy morning sickness. It was, thankfully, mostly limited to the mornings, but he would much rather have started his day trading kisses with Percival and not emptying his belly into the toilet. Percival had gone carefully nondescript when Credence asked how long this was supposed to last, which Credence interpreted as _a long time._ He wasn’t sure he had the strength to endure this for a long time, but that might have been the morning sickness talking. He’d forget about how miserable he felt by noon, once the nausea passed, only to remember again tomorrow. But for now …

Credence curled up on their cot, one hand on his stomach and the other fisted in the pillow. I’m glad that you’re healthy, baby, he thought, but couldn’t you give your poor papa a little break?

Percival had his shirt off and was doing something he called shadow boxing, which seemed to consist of aiming quick punches and jabs at absolutely nothing. His expression was ferocious with intent – Credence suspected that Mr. Grindelwald was his imaginary opponent. 

Credence had very little interest in boxing. Watching men beat on each other for sport seemed ridiculous, when men hurt each other for worse reasons all the time and no one said anything about it. But when Percival did it, it looked primal and rather appealing. Credence resented being too nauseous to properly appreciate it.

He napped until he stopped feeling nauseous and started feeling ravenous instead. Credence got out of bed and settled on the floor by their breakfast, waiting for Percival to stop punching the imaginary Mr. Grindelwald and join him.

“Feeling better?” Percival asked, sitting next to him. He was appealingly sweaty and looked pleased with himself; he’d vanquished the imaginary Mr. Grindelwald, then.

“Much,” Credence assured him, passing him one of the bowls of cold porridge before starting in on his own. Percival wolfed it down, scraping up the last bit with his fingers. Credence took advantage of his distraction to pass him an apple. Percival wasn’t eating enough, but he’d usually eat if Credence passed him food – at least until he noticed what Credence was doing.

“Magic lesson?” Percival asked, crunching into his apple. It was the next part of their new routine.

 _“Wingardium leviosa,”_ said Credence, getting the intonation exactly right. His cup of peppermint tea – also recommended to settle his stomach, according to Mr. Grindelwald, who had looked rather smug to know something Percival didn’t – floated into the air just above his head, saucer and all.

“Well done!” Percival said.

Credence retrieved the cup and saucer and took a sip to hide his pleased expression. 

“It’s a pity you never got your Ilvermorny letter,” Percival said. “You’re a quick study – you’d have been top of your year seven years running.”

“What’s Ilvermorny?” Credence asked. “Is that a school? Like Hogwarts?”

“Very like,” Percival confirmed. “Ilvermorny is modeled on Hogwarts, actually. One of the founders – Isolt Sayre – always wanted to go to Hogwarts. She and her husband James Steward founded Ilvermorny with their two adopted sons, Chadwick and Webster Boot. It started out as a little school in their family cottage, and now it’s one of the best schools for wizarding education in the world. _The_ best, depending on who you ask. It’s the only wizarding school in the world to have a No-Maj as one of the founders.”

“No-Maj’s can do that?” Credence asked. “I thought there were laws against it.”

“Not then,” Percival said.

“Is that where you went?”

“It’s where every Graves goes to school,” Percival said. He gestured to Credence’s belly, where their child grew. “He will, too. You should have. Your memory’s incredible. You’d have done well in Horned Serpent. Seraphina might still try to poach you for her amanuensis, she’s got an eye for talent.”

“Why would I do well _in_ Horned Serpent?” Credence asked. This was, he felt, a good example of the way wizards did not seem to use perfectly normal English. “Would it eat me? And who is Seraphina, and why would she want me for an – amanuensis?” Was that a spell? It sounded like a spell.

Percival chuckled. “Ilvermorny, like Hogwarts, divides its students into four Houses that the students are sorted into at school. It gives the students a group of like-minded peers to bond with. Houses can compete with each other over sporting events and the likes, which encourages a little healthy competition, too. It’s a boarding school thing. Horned Serpent is one of the four Houses at Ilvermorny. Seraphina was in Horned Serpent, actually. The House for scholars and the mind. She’ll never admit to it, but she does tend to favor her fellow Horned Serpents. And Seraphina’s …” He paused, considering.

Credence’s throat tightened. Was Seraphina Percival’s lover?

“Well, you know how I mentioned MACUSA has a president, just like the No-Maj’s do?” Percival asked.

“Yes,” said Credence, because he had a fairly decent idea of how MACUSA was structured now.

“That’s Seraphina.”

Credence frowned. “I thought you said the president was someone named Picquery?” 

Percival had told Mr. Grindelwald how to pick a fight with President Picquery; he’d even used her name, when he was telling Mr. Grindelwald how to really make her mad. _Cura dat victoriam, Seraphina._ Whatever that meant.

He should have realized who she was before now. Ma didn’t like it when he put things together like that – she said it was cheeky – but sometimes putting things together helped him avoid getting belted.

Not that Percival would belt him.

“Seraphina Picquery, yes.”

“A woman president,” Credence said, thinking about how different the wizarding world was all over again.

“And a mixed race one, at that,” Percival said. “The Picquery family’s from Georgia. They’re very strong and well-respected.”

“You’re on a first name basis with the _president,”_ Credence said.

“I’m the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. It’s my job to work with the president. Besides, Seraphina and I have been friends since we were at Ilvermorny. I was her rival.”

“Was she yours?” Credence asked.

“After a fashion,” Percival said. “Seraphina’s the only witch of our generation to have been offered all four Houses at Ilvermorny. She’s exceptional, always has been. Most people define my position by who I was – and am – to her, rather than who she is to me.”

“You’re exceptional too,” Credence pointed out.

Percival shook his head. “Not like Seraphina.”

Ilvermorny, Percival explained, had four Houses. There was Horned Serpent, which represented the mind, for scholars, where Seraphina had chosen to go. And Wampus, which was a kind of six-legged cat and represented the body, for warriors. 

“Three guesses where _I_ ended up,” Percival said, a wry twist to his mouth. “Half my team is Wampus, too, with a few Thunderbirds here and there.”

Thunderbird represented the soul, and was the House for adventurers. Norton had been a Thunderbird. Tina Goldstein – the dark-haired witch who’d tried to save him from Ma – was a Thunderbird, too. Credence hadn’t known her name before now.

And last but certainly not least was Pukwudgie, which was named for a magical creature found only in America – “a little like a goblin, but with some shapeshifting powers thrown in; they’re not full shifters, like werewolves, but a partial transformation into a large porcupine or a cougar is terrifying enough” – and represented the heart, for the healers. 

“You might’ve been a Pukwudgie, if you didn’t go into Horned Serpent,” Percival said thoughtfully. “You’ve the biggest heart of anyone I’ve ever met. Maybe both Houses would’ve offered for you, and you could’ve picked the one you wanted.”

“You can’t pick which House you want? I thought that was what you said Seraphina did.”

“Seraphina’s exceptional,” Percival repeated. “The Houses choose the wizard. Or the witch, in Seraphina’s case. It’s rare for a witch or a wizard to be chosen by more than one house. Being chosen by all four only happens once every generation or so.”

“Oh,” said Credence, basking in the warm glow of Percival’s regard. Percival thought that _he_ could’ve been chosen by more than one House _and_ that he had the biggest heart of anyone he’d ever met. 

Percival thought too highly of him. Maybe it was sinful, but Credence had no desire to correct him.

Credence sipped some more tea. “Where do you think he’ll go?” he asked, making a vague circle near his belly with his teacup.

“I think every father hopes his son will follow in his footsteps,” Percival admitted. “Mine certainly did. I’d rather he took after you, though. Horned Serpent or Pukwudgie.”

“I wasn’t either of those, not really,” Credence pointed out.

“You should have been. In a different life, you would have.”

“This life’s not so bad,” Credence said. “Not with you in it.”

“Definitely Pukwudgie,” said Percival. “You’re right, though. In a different life, if you’d gone to Ilvermorny like you were supposed to and joined MACUSA – as a healer, maybe, although I think you’d have made a damn fine Auror. If your life had gone the way it was supposed to, I never would have let myself look at you, much less touch. I can’t abuse my position. Not like that.”

Credence thought about that. The thought that he could have had magic and Percival’s world – that he _should_ have had those things, and didn’t – that thought hurt. But the thought that he wouldn’t have Percival? That was worse.

“What if I wanted you to look?” he asked. “Or touch?”

“I still wouldn’t have. I _couldn’t,_ Credence. If you joined MACUSA, you’d be a junior Auror, and I’m the Head of Magical Law Enforcement. Your boss. Or your boss’s boss’s boss, which is worse. There’d be no way to prove that you weren’t with me to advance your career, or that I wasn’t taking advantage of you. It would ruin both of us.”

That, strangely, made it easier to let the dream of the life that should have been go. When it came down to a life with Percival and a life without him, the choice was easy.

“Then I’m glad things worked out the way they did,” Credence said. He wasn’t quite as good as Percival at sounding firm, but he was getting better with practice. “I’d rather have you.”

“Will you still think that, once you’re out of this cage and you’ve seen the wonders our world holds with your own two eyes?” Percival asked. He sounded a little sad.

“Nothing is more wonderful than you,” Credence said, _very_ firmly this time. He set his tea aside and decided the rest of breakfast could wait until later. “Percival?”

“Yes?”

“What if I want you to look now? Since this isn’t that other life, and I’m not a junior Auror.”

Percival turned to look at him, warmth in his eyes. “I’m looking.”

Credence summoned up every ounce of bravery he had. “And if I want you to touch?”

“Are you sure that’s what you want?” Percival asked. 

“Yes,” Credence said.

Percival leaned over and kissed him, careful and lingering. “Me too,” he said. “We still haven’t talked about what _anything_ means, though.”

“It means _anything,”_ Credence said, a little impatiently.

“Kissing?”

“Yes.”

“Touching?”

“Yes.”

“Fucking?”

Credence blushed. _“Percival.”_

“Having sex?” Percival corrected.

 _“Yes,”_ Credence said, blushing harder.

“That doesn’t even begin to cover _anything,”_ Percival said. “There’s a lot of different ways to touch, and even more to have sex. Not everyone likes _everything.”_

“I don’t even know what I like!” Credence shot back. “I just know I like you, and that you won’t hurt me. And if I _didn’t_ like something, you’d stop, wouldn’t you? That’s what you said to me, the first night Mr. Grindelwald brought me here. You said to tell you if you did something I didn’t like, or if it hurt. You asked if I wanted you to stop, and you asked if you hurt me. I _trust_ you, Percival. Trust me, too. I’ll _tell_ you if I don’t like something, or if it hurts, and you’ll _stop._ I know you will.” He took a deep breath and added, “And you’ll tell me if _I_ do something you don’t like, and _I’ll_ stop.”

Percival stared at him.

Doubt crept in. Had he pushed Percival too far? Maybe he was being too demanding. He opened his mouth to apologize.

“I am a terrible hypocrite,” Percival said, looking far to amused to be properly guilty about it. “Because all I can think is that I’d like anything, as long as it was with you.”

Credence snorted. “Yes,” he said. “You are.”

“You, however, are magnificent,” Percival said. “And I am going to make love to you until you believe it.”

“That might take awhile,” Credence said, ears burning with how shameless he sounded: how wanton.

“Good,” Percival said, using the low raspy purr he’d used last week, when Credence had said he could do anything. “I’m going to enjoy taking my time with you.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, the torture tag is on this story mostly for this chapter. It's not especially graphic, but it does contain instances of torture while one of the characters (Graves, to the surprise of absolutely no one) is immobilized and physically unable to fight back. It also contains brief concerns about miscarriage, so you may want to give everything after the sex a miss if either or both of these things is likely to hit you in the feels in a really bad way.

Having permission to touch Credence was torturous in ways Graves hadn’t anticipated. His fabled self-control utterly failed him; he hadn’t had this much trouble keeping his hands off of someone since he was a callow youth just discovering all the ways other people liked to be touched. It would have been embarrassing, if Credence didn’t seem to be having the exact same problem. He reached for Graves almost as often as Graves reached for him, and frequently initiated the sort of necking Graves hadn’t done since he was a teenager.

The next week passed almost like a honeymoon – a strange one, to be sure, punctuated by Credence’s morning sickness and magic lessons. They rarely got out of bed, except for food. If he’d given it any thought, Graves would’ve said it was the sort of honeymoon he preferred. Why bother traveling anywhere if you were just going to spend all your time in bed? His own bed would have been even better, but they did well enough on their cot.

Maybe Credence would want to travel. Graves suspected he wouldn’t mind traveling somewhere if it was what Credence wanted.

“Do you like traveling?” he asked.

“I’ve never been outside of New York,” Credence said.

Graves put _show Credence the world_ on the Credence-specific list of things he was going to do once they were free. 

“Why?” Credence asked. “Do you like traveling?”

Graves pulled Credence into his lap, because Credence liked being able to ride him, pressing reverent kisses against Graves’ mouth while Graves rocked into him, careful and slow. It was Credence’s second-favorite position, after being laid out flat on his back where Graves could cover him completely, like a shield.

Credence sank down on his cock with a blissful smile and a pleased shudder, hiding his face against Graves’ shoulder.

“I usually travel for work,” Graves said honestly. “But it would be nice to see London again. I’ve never seen London, when it wasn’t at war, but everyone says it’s worth seeing.”

“We could visit your friends,” Credence said. 

“We could,” Graves said, tilting his hips to hit Credence’s sweet spot.

“Oh, God,” said Credence, gripping Graves’ shoulders hard enough to bruise.

“There?” Graves asked.

“Oh, God,” Credence said again. “You feel _so good.”_ He cried out on the next stroke in, and the one after that, gratifyingly noisy. He got even louder when Graves wrapped a hand around his cock, coming with something almost like a shout.

“Fuck,” said Graves, because orgasm made the hot tight clutch of Credence’s body go even tighter. “Want me to stop?”

Credence shook his head. “I like it when you finish inside me.”

Graves rolled them over so he had better leverage. He kept his thrusts careful and slow, enjoying the way Credence went boneless beneath him. “I have no idea what I did to deserve you,” he said, mouthing the words into Credence’s neck. “You’re lovely and clever and kind.”

“And yours,” Credence said firmly.

“And mine,” Graves agreed, spilling into Credence with a breathless laugh. He got them separated and cleaned up and flopped back on the cot, dragging Credence in close. He stroked up and down Credence’s back, just because he could, and Credence arched into it with a contented sigh.

“Percival?”

“Hm?”

“Talk to me?”

“About what?” Graves asked, concerned. Was Credence upset?

“Anything,” said Credence. “I like your voice.” 

Graves had to kiss him for that. Credence was getting better about expressing his preferences. The man he’d be once he was more comfortable in his own skin was an incredible one.

“When we get out of here,” Graves began, the way he would have said _once upon a time_ if he’d been telling a story to Lance, “I’m going to introduce you to Dorothy Collins. I think you’ll like her. She’s got a kind heart, like you, and she’s married to one of my team.”

“I’ve heard that name before,” Credence said.

“Grindelwald made some very unsubtle threats about Collins and his wife,” Graves said, trying not to scowl at the memory. _No one_ got to threaten his team, or their loved ones. Part of him wanted to make Grindelwald _hurt_ for even thinking it, and the rest of him just wanted the bastard dead. It was a lot harder for the dead to hurt the living, and Grindelwald was too dangerous to risk the possibility of escape.

Credence nudged him in the ribs. “Are you thinking about Mr. Grindelwald?”

“How did you know?”

“You get all rumbly when you think about Mr. Grindelwald.” Credence made a sound Graves thought was meant to be a growl, if it hadn’t been so fucking cute. “Grr.”

“Huh,” Graves said, bemused. “Alright then.” He made himself stop thinking about Grindelwald. “Back to Dorothy. She works part time as a seamstress. She’s quite good.”

“What does she look like?” Credence asked.

Graves thought about that. “Strawberry blonde hair, done up in curls. It’s about chin length, I think? Hazel eyes. She’s maybe five feet tall? Curvy, in that way that makes men idiots.” He made a vague hourglass figure with his hands. “And sweet. Dorothy’s got the sort of innate goodness that just shines through. She’s the sort of person you could trust with any secret.” 

If you weren’t her husband’s boss, at any rate. Dorothy was much too young and much too sweet for Graves to exchange confidences with, but he hoped Credence would be able to.

“Dorothy does a lot of charity work, when she isn’t working as a seamstress or being the kind of homemaker that only exists in magazines. Volunteering, making knit items for orphans and the like. She’s a phenomenal cook. You should _see_ the sack lunches Collins comes in with.”

“Do you want her to teach me?” Credence asked. “I don’t know how to cook much besides gruel, but I can learn.”

Graves blinked. “Only if you want to learn.”

“I want to be useful to you,” Credence said.

“You don’t need to be useful to me,” Graves said, frowning. This was Healer-Legilimens territory.

“I want to be your partner, not your dependent,” Credence said firmly. “You do so much for me. You protect me, and you’re teaching me magic – you take care of me. I want to be able to take care of you, too. I already know how to clean, so I can at least keep your house, but I’d like to be able to cook for you, too.”

Maybe it wasn’t Healer-Legilimens territory after all. Graves couldn’t tell. This was why he wanted Credence to talk to a Healer-Legilimens in the first place.

“Only if you want to learn,” he reiterated. “Mostly, I was hoping Dorothy could explain what it’s like, being an Auror’s spouse. It’s hard, caring for someone whose job frequently puts them in danger. It’s good to have a support network.”

Credence went very still. “An Auror’s spouse?”

“Er,” said Graves. “Shit. Yes? I was going to ask you, once we were free. I was going to do something romantic. Don’t ask me what – I’m still working out the details.”

He was actually planning on outsourcing that question to his team, which was an absolutely terrible fucking idea. Collins would offer up something terribly sweet and earnest that Graves – sarcastic bastard that he was – would be completely incapable of pulling off. Summersea might have more useful advice, but it would be accompanied with a flat, extremely judgey expression that suggested this was not something Graves ought to have been outsourcing. He would be right about that, too. And Hughes … well Hughes would probably tell him to do more or less what he’d just done, although she’d phrase it in the most vulgar way possible just to make Collins squawk with indignation. He could practically hear her now: _Screw him senseless and then pop the question. Orgasms make everybody agreeable, boss, it’s a scientifically proven fact._

“Er,” Graves said again. “Unless you don’t want to be married?”

“No,” Credence blurted. “I do! I just – you really want to marry me?”

“Of course I do,” Graves said. “You’re magnificent. Any man would be lucky to have you. You’re mine and I’m yours, remember? Getting married would just make it official.”

Credence kissed him. “You’re _mine,”_ he said, low and possessive. “My Percival, forever.”

“Forever sounds like a good place to start,” Graves agreed, happier than he could remember being in a long time. For the first time in nearly two months of captivity, all the rage and simmering resentment he felt at being caged melted away. This moment would be the one he remembered, when he needed to cast a patronus. This moment and Credence were all he needed.

 

*

 

It was too good to last. Of course it was too good to last, because Gellert fucking Grindelwald enjoyed ruining everything he touched. He flung the basement door open and stomped down the stairs, still wearing Graves’ face, his expression dark.

“Come here, Percival,” he said.

Graves lifted his eyebrows. “Out of polyjuice?” he inquired.

Grindelwald bared his teeth. “No,” he said. “I don’t want to upset Credence, not in his condition. Come here, Percival.”

Ah. It was extended torture time. Lovely.

Graves pressed a kiss to Credence’s temple. “I’ll be right back,” he promised.

“Why?” Credence asked. “Where are you going?”

Graves avoided Credence’s attempt to catch his wrist and stepped through the barrier to his cell. It felt like being stung with fire ants, which was just Grindelwald being petty. It was possible to pass through the barrier without pain, but pain was the only thing on today’s menu.

“Percival, please,” Credence said, rushing into the barrier. He cried out when he hit it. “Please, come back.”

 _Fuck._ He’d hurt himself, or the child, if he wasn’t careful.

Graves let go of the spell he’d readied and turned back to Credence. “It’s alright, darling, I’ll be fine. Wait for me, okay? I’ll be right back. Try to stay calm. Getting upset is bad for the baby. Just wait for me, and everything will be fine.”

“Percival, _please,”_ Credence begged.

Graves forced himself to turn his back on Credence.

Grindelwald hit him with _petrificus totalus_ before Graves could ready an attack of his own. He floated Graves up the stairs and into the house, setting Graves down in what used to be the smaller guest room. The furniture was gone, and there was a map of New York on the wall alongside dozens of photos. It was the sort of Investigation Board Graves himself would have set up, although he would’ve done so in his study. Grindelwald was clearly looking for something.

What the hell, Graves thought. What could Grindelwald be looking for? Graves had assumed that Grindelwald had come to America to spread his poison. If Grindelwald was _looking_ for something, that changed everything.

“Why,” Grindelwald demanded, “Does the Spell Contraventions Map not track anything _useful?”_

 _It tracks illegal spells,_ Graves wanted to tell him. _That seems pretty useful to me._

Grindelwald didn’t want an answer, though. He just wanted someone to hurt.

“You Americans are so short-sighted. You track _spells_ and nothing of use. No creatures, no beings of pure magic. Useless!” Grindelwald hissed. _“Crucio.”_

Getting hit with the Cruciatus Curse while Petrified was fucking awful. Graves’ muscles wanted to go tense and couldn’t, and he couldn’t scream or make any noise at all. He lost track of how long Grindelwald kept the spell on him, because his whole world shrank down into bright, unending pain. He would’ve sobbed for breath, if he could have.

His inability to produce a reaction irritated Grindelwald, who removed the _petrificus totalus_ for a _petrificus partialus_ and the Tell No Tales curse wizarding criminals liked to use on their snitches. Graves gagged around the feel of phantom thorns in his mouth, feeling them cut into his cheeks and his tongue.

 _“Crucio,”_ Grindelwald said again.

Graves thrashed weakly, which was the best he could manage under _petrificus partialus._ He tried to scream and gagged up blood and saliva.

The pain made it hard to concentrate. Casting _finite incantatum_ was out of the question, as was casting anything else. Graves tried to push through it and failed.  
Grindelwald relented after what felt like forever. Graves sucked in lungfuls of air through the blood in his mouth and reached for the core of his magic.

Graves had never met anyone aside from his nephew Arthur who shared his easy, instinctive talent for wandless, wordless magic. Most wizards could cast a wandless spell under duress, but they still needed to speak the spell out loud to make it work. Graves didn’t have that problem. His ability to cast spells wasn’t dependent on his ability to move or speak.

 _Dilaceratio,_ he thought, pouring every bit of rage he’d stored for the last however many months he'd been held captive into the spell.

The Slashing Hex caught Grindelwald across his chest and flung him into his Investigation Board.

 _Finite incantatem,_ Graves thought, and felt the thorns in his mouth vanish. _Finite incantatem!_ He could move now, weakened by the pain but still mobile.

“Oh, Percival,” Grindelwald sighed, rising up utterly unharmed. There was a rent in his clothing, but his skin was untouched. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fucking fuck, Graves thought. The bastard had a shield charm. A powerful one, from the looks of it, created by a wizard who knew what he was doing and cared for Grindelwald enough to warp pure magic to keep Grindelwald safe from harm.

 _Incarcerus,_ Graves thought. He made it through the first syllable of the handcuff spell before Grindelwald hit him with the Cruciatus again. Graves screamed until his voice went hoarse and kept screaming inside of his head.

Eventually, Grindelwald got bored with his silent screaming and flung Graves into the walls. Graves crashed into them, his head snapping against a supporting beam beneath the drywall.

Everything went black after that.

 

*

 

Consciousness returned slowly, filtering in through his brain in static-filled moments of awareness.

“Please,” someone said. “Please come back to me.”

I’m trying, Graves thought, because he recognized that voice even if he couldn’t remember who it was. Whoever the voice belonged to was important to him, and he _wanted_ to go back to them, he really did. But the darkness was all encompassing, and the moment of awareness passed.

The next time conscious thought resurfaced the familiar voice was quiet, but Graves knew who it belonged to. It was Credence, who was cuddled up next to him like Graves was the only safe haven to be found. He surged upwards, trying to find an end to the darkness, but there was no end in sight and Graves faded away again.

The third time awareness resurfaced, Graves broke through the darkness into conscious thought. He stirred, weakly. Why was he so weak? 

Credence was pressed against his side. He was sleeping, but he woke as soon as Graves moved.

“Percival?” he asked, voice careful and small, like he didn’t trust himself to believe anything he saw or heard.

“Hi,” Graves rasped.

Credence burst into tears.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Graves crooned, reaching for him. “There’s no need for tears. Please don’t cry.”

“You were unconscious!” Credence said, poking Graves in the chest. Carefully, though, like he thought even that would hurt. “For _two whole weeks,_ Percival. Don’t you tell me there’s no need to cry.” He pressed his face against Graves’ chest and did just that, sobbing out all the fear the last two weeks must have held for him.

“Hush,” Graves crooned. “It’s alright, I promise. It’s alright. I’m here, aren’t I? I’ve come back to you.”

“I thought you were going to _die,”_ Credence told him, burying his tear-stained face against Graves’ chest.

“Two weeks?” Graves asked. It didn’t feel like that long to him. It wouldn’t though, would it? He’d been lost in the darkness for most of it.

“Two weeks,” Credence confirmed, with a fresh spate of tears.

“Sorry,” Graves said. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Credence.”

“Promise me you won’t die,” said Credence. “Promise you won’t leave me, Percival. I don’t know how to do this without you.”

“I’m not going to die,” Graves promised recklessly. He’d have promised anything, to make Credence stop crying. “Not for years and years. Not until you’re done with me.”

“I’ll never be done with you,” Credence swore.

Graves held him until Credence had sobbed himself out, going limp and exhausted in Graves’ arms in a way that suggested he hadn’t slept at all in the entire two weeks Graves had been unconscious.

“My brave darling,” Graves whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of Credence’s head. “Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”

Credence clung to him like a barnacle, and slept.

 

*

 

Credence reached for Percival as soon as he woke, more than half-convinced the previous night had been a dream. He’d spent a lot of the past two weeks dreaming just that, after all. And praying for it, for all the good it did.

“Morning,” Percival said. 

_“Percival,”_ Credence cried. He surged up against Percival and kissed him, desperate and grateful. Percival was really awake, really here with him. He hadn’t wanted to believe that Percival might die, because Percival was a fighter and he _had_ to wake up again, but after the first week the doubt crept in. 

“You came back to me,” Credence said, pressing kisses all over Percival’s face.

“I always will,” Percival promised.

Credence wanted to believe that. He did. But the doubt had taken root, and he didn’t know how to weed it out again.

His stomach roiled, reminding him that their son was still alive and well. Credence was grateful for that. He’d worried, when his belly started cramping after Mr. Grindelwald brought Percival back to their cell and tossed his unconscious body in like so much trash. Percival had said that getting upset was bad for the baby, but he hadn’t been able to help it. The first week had been awful; Credence had been convinced that he would lose them both. Without Percival and his son, what value could he have to Mr. Grindelwald? None. Mr. Grindelwald would just kill him, the way he had poor Norton. Death would have been welcome, at that point. Credence did not think he could bear it, if Mr. Grindelwald took him back to Ma. Not even for Modesty’s sake.

Suicide was a mortal sin. Credence did not think he would care about that, though. Not if he lost everything and Mr. Grindelwald took him back to Ma. 

The cramps passed, though, and his morning sickness stayed just as bad as ever. Credence hoped that meant his son was healthy and safe.

He emptied his stomach into the toilet, pausing to pillow his head against his forearms on the cool porcelain. He was _so tired_ all the time now. Just one more minute, he told himself. One more minute of rest, and then you need to check on Percival. He’d need to water down Percival’s portion of the porridge so he could coax Percival into drinking it, and then scourgify the bed clean. The cleaning charm was even easier to cast than lumos was, now. He’d had a lot of practice at it recently.

Except he didn’t need to check on Percival. Percival was standing in the water closet on shaky legs, bracing himself against the sink. He offered Credence a glass of water to rinse his mouth out with, the way he always did.

That was enough to make Credence burst into tears all over again. He’d spent a lot of the past two weeks crying, too. He blamed it on being tired and frightened, and he didn’t know how to make himself stop. 

Ma hadn’t liked tears, so Credence had learned to cry silently. Before Percival, he’d even been able to hold them back most of the time, because it wasn’t safe to cry. He couldn’t do that now; it was awful, not having control over his own body and not knowing why.

“My poor brave darling,” Percival said, sliding down the wall to sit next to Credence. He reached for Credence and Credence curled into him willingly, sniveling into Percival’s shirt. Percival pulled him close. His arms lacked their familiar reassuring strength, but he was still _Percival,_ and the smoke and wild smell of him was reassuring. Pressed this close to him, Credence could hear the steady beating of Percival’s heart, and the wordless rumbling purr he used when words ran out and he was just crooning comforting noise and nonsense.

He let it anchor him in reality, because Percival was really here, really awake and with him once more. It didn’t quite banish the doubt, but it drove it back enough that Credence felt like he could breathe again.

“Come on,” Percival said, nudging him. “If we’re going to sleep, we should do it in bed, where it’s comfortable.”

“No!” Credence blurted. “Don’t go back to sleep, Percival, please.”

“I won’t,” Percival assured him. “But _you_ need rest. You’re exhausted.”

Credence wanted to point out that he didn’t need Percival to tell him how he felt, but he held his tongue and let Percival tuck him back into bed. 

“A long, long time ago,” Percival began, pitching his voice low, “when wizards lived alongside the No-Maj’s and neither feared the other, Camelot fell. Camelot fell and the world was fractured into two again, because without Merlin and Arthur to hold them together, fear and darkness crept in. But there were still those that remembered what it was like to live in harmony, and carried Camelot’s light with them when they returned to their home kingdoms.

“One such knight was Percival, son of Pellinore and Elaine. After Pellinore’s death, Elaine took Percival and his sister Dindrane into the forests and raised them ignorant of the ways of men and politics. Their lives were wild, and the forest and its creatures were their teachers. Percival learned to be unyielding from the trees and strong as a bear, while Dindrane learned to listen from the wind and to be clever as a fox, with claws like a wildcat. And so it passed until Percival was fifteen, and some of Arthur’s knights passed through their home.

“Percival was struck by their heroic bearing – the sight of creatures who were shaped like him, and not his mother or sister, for he had forgotten what men looked like. He wanted to join them, to be one of their number, and so he left his mother and sister and the forest that had been his home behind. And in his absence, his mother took her daughter back to Pellinore’s castle, and taught Dindrane all the things about men and politics she hoped her daughter would never need to know.

“After many days of tracking the knights and travel, Percival reached Camelot and King Arthur’s court, where he brashly demanded admission to their ranks. He was told to prove his worth, by right of combat. Percival had no skill with the sword, but he could hunt with a knife and spear, and so he accepted their challenge. He was a son of the forest, who had learned to be strong as a bear, to hunt like the wolves and be patient and strike at just the right moment like the serpent. He chose his moment and he struck, fighting with such ferocity that his opponent stopped laughing at the ignorant savage boy and was forced first to fight back and then to yield. His second opponent fared no better, and neither did the third. And when all three had been defeated, Arthur tipped his head back and laughed with joy to find such a warrior for his company, and allowed Percival to live among their number – if, he specified, Percival could live a life of civility and chivalry, because his court was no place for savages.”

Credence snorted, amused. The original Percival sounded a lot like _his_ Percival.

He rested his head against Percival’s chest and wondered if this was how the story actually went, or if Percival’s mother had modified it so that the Percival of legend resembled her wild son. If it was how the story actually went, they would have to choose their son’s name _very carefully,_ just in case it turned out to be another self-fulfilling prophecy.

Percival’s voice was a balm, driving the terror that had gripped him for the last two weeks away. Credence still felt tired, but he knew that as long as Percival was with him, it was safe to rest.

“After Camelot fell, Percival traveled to King Pellinore’s castle, to claim his birthright. And when he arrived, he learned that his mother was dead and the grand lady of the castle – as sophisticated and clever as any he’d met at Arthur’s court – was none other than his sister, Dindrane.

“And on his first night in the castle, Percival dreamed of a powerful magical object, and rose knowing that it was his duty to find it. He could not remember the rest of his dream, but he trusted magic, for all that he had none of his own. He remembered what Merlin could do.

“And when he sat down to break his fast, his sister Dindrane – who _was_ a witch and a Legilimens, born of No-Maj parents – saw what he had dreamed and said, ‘about fucking time, you idiot.’”

Credence made a sleepy noise of protest. “No one talks like that in your stories.”

Percival huffed a quiet laugh. “True enough,” he agreed. “I’m paraphrasing what my Dindrane would’ve said.”

“What’s a Legilimens?” Credence asked, mangling the unfamiliar word around a yawn.

“Kind of like a mind-reader, I suppose you’d say,” Percival explained. “Not everyone can do it. It takes skill and practice, and even then, not everyone learns. MACUSA employs a few of them. Most of them are interrogators, but they tend to burn out pretty quickly. Goldstein the Younger’s the strongest one I’ve ever met, but she pretends to be frivolous and silly and that all she does for us is serve the coffee. Which is technically true, I suppose. That _is_ what she’s paid to do, even if she’s the single most obvious Legilimens I’ve ever met. She’s Goldstein’s younger sister. Queenie.”

People who could read your mind sounded like the sort of thing Ma would object to. Of course, given Ma’s ability to suss out sin and lies, Credence wasn’t entirely certain she wasn’t a – whatever Percival had called it. Le-something.

“What did Dindrane actually say?” he asked, putting all thoughts of Ma out of his head. Ma couldn’t hurt him here. There was only Mr. Grindelwald to worry about now, and the only one Mr. Grindelwald was interested in hurting was Percival.

Credence hated him for that. More than he hated Ma, even.

“She said, ‘welcome home, O my brother, and stay your wandering heart. The time for questing has not yet come. Magic is waiting for you, brother – for three brave hearts questing as one, for yours alone will fail.’”

 _“That’s_ how people in your stories talk,” Credence said, satisfied.

“Not _my_ stories,” Percival protested. “Although I suppose this one _is_ mine. Just a little. _Anyway,_ Percival, who has learned civility at Arthur’s court but is still unfortunately a bit of an ass –”

“Sounds familiar,” murmured Credence.

“Ouch,” Percival said, his words entirely devoid of any sting. “That’s hurtful, sweetheart.”

Credence thought of two weeks of worry and the growing certainty that Percival would die and go where Credence couldn’t follow. “Good,” he said tartly.

Percival sighed. “I deserved that,” he muttered. “As I was saying, Percival is still a bit of an ass, so he says, ‘you do not know my strength, sweet sister, so do not think that my heart alone will fail.’ Dindrane tells him, ‘I know your strength better than anyone, brother mine, for your heart is no stronger than mine. Remember your true home, my brother, and then tell me your heart is equal to the task ahead.’ So Percival went into the forest for nine days and nine nights, and lived the way he did as a boy, watching the wild things and learning from them, hunting and stalking with only a knife and his own two hands to protect him. He remembered what it was to have the strength of a bear and the cunning of a serpent as well as being one of Arthur’s knights. And when Percival emerged at last, there were two of his old company waiting for him: Bors the Younger and Galahad, son of Lancelot, who had also had visions of the magical object they were destined to find – a magical goblet known as the Grail, which possessed the power to provide happiness, healing and abundant harvest and could potentially restore Camelot to its rightful glory.”

“Did it?” Credence asked.

“That story is Galahad’s, unfortunately,” Percival told him. “Dindrane’s, too. It’s a story for another time, my brave darling. Rest now. I’ll keep watch.”

“You should rest too,” Credence said. “There’s no need to keep watch. Mr. Grindelwald hasn’t come down here at all since he brought you back to me.”

“That’s what worries me,” Percival murmured, so quietly Credence didn’t think Percival meant for him to hear it at all. “Hush now, and sleep.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fantastic [gingermaya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/gingermaya) asked how Credence kept Percival fed and clean during the two weeks he was unconscious, so chapter 9 has been edited to explain that.
> 
> There shouldn't be any warnings for this chapter, aside from Grindelwald being Grindelwald. Feel free to correct me if I'm wrong.

Credence slept fitfully, his hands constantly reaching for Graves. He woke frequently, just enough to verify that Graves was still awake – still with him, before falling into restless sleep once more. Graves tightened his hold on Credence, since Credence had always found that reassuring in the past, and promised himself he was never, ever going to let Credence go.

Attacking Grindelwald had been stupid. He ought to have cast _incarcerous_ first; he saw that clearly now. Then _finite incantatem,_ just to even the playing field a little. But no, he’d given into his rage and his desire to _hurt_ his captor and cast _dilaceratio_ at him like a stupid fucking rookie with a chip on his shoulder instead. Using Grindelwald’s own spells against him was meant to be a method of last resort, not an opening salvo. It was a rookie mistake.

Graves didn’t make rookie mistakes. He couldn’t afford to. He was a Graves – the only Graves of his generation who felt called to serve MACUSA, and Seraphina’s rival to boot. 

When Graves made mistakes, people died. This was worse, because if he got his fool self killed now, Credence and their son would suffer for it.

He wouldn’t make a mistake like that again. The next time he went after Grindelwald, Graves would kill him. It was the only way to make sure Grindelwald couldn’t hurt Credence or their son, ever again.

Credence stirred faintly, close to waking again.

Had he spent the whole two weeks like this? Graves didn’t like the automatic way Credence kept waking up and falling back to sleep. It put a guilty twist in his stomach that hurt worse than his lingering bruises.

Graves cleared his throat and began to sing quietly. “It seems there’s none for me although my aching heart discovers – in a story play or picture show, a host of perfect lovers.” 

Music was its own form of magic. The British wizards he knew preferred wizarding music, but Graves had always liked music for its own sake and didn’t care who wrote or performed it. Gershwin might’ve been a No-Maj, but no one could deny that the man was a genius at what he did. Summersea and his wife Angelica both adored jazz, and Graves had once bought them tickets to see Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue performed by a live orchestra as an anniversary present. (And an apology. Summersea had gotten the brunt of Graves’ temper on a case, and afterwards, Graves realized that Summersea hadn’t deserved it. He’d bought the tickets as an apology, in lieu of actually saying the words, and Summersea had been gracious enough to let him get away with it.)

“Somebody loves me, I wonder who – maybe it’s you.”

He hummed his way through the bits of the lyrics he couldn’t remember, and then moved on to singing the quiet lullabies his Irish-born mother had sung him to sleep with. Dindrane sang them to her children. Graves had too, when he’d had a chance to babysit. He’d sing them for his own son, soon.

Credence relaxed into true sleep somewhere during the third song, but Graves kept singing anyway. It was relaxing, and it kept him from focusing too much on how badly he’d fucked up. 

_Cura dat victoriam,_ Percival, he thought, giving the words the Savannah drawl of Seraphina’s youth.

Professor Galen was finally right. Caution was the only thing that would bring him victory now. Graves would wait. He’d be patient, and when the moment was right – he’d strike like a serpent, exactly the way his namesake had learned to.

Graves dozed lightly, still keeping watch. He woke whenever Credence grew restless, launching into another lullaby or, once he ran out of those, the drinking songs he’d learned from Harry and Liam. (The drinking songs he’d learned from Merak and Theseus would probably traumatize Credence; they had typically pureblood filthy minds. Too much money and not enough restraint had that effect on most purebloods, even American ones.) He could at least sing the ones he’d learned from Harry and Liam in public, although he hadn’t done so since he’d made Head of MLE despite Hughes’ best efforts.

Eventually, Credence stirred, showing signs of waking for real.

“I didn’t know you could sing,” he said, sitting up slowly and carefully.

“I don’t, much,” Graves admitted. “I thought it would help.”

“It did,” Credence said, shy in a way he hadn’t been since the first time he’d done magic.

“Would you like me to sing something now that you’re awake?” Graves asked.

“Could you sing the first song again?” Credence asked. “The one about somebody who loves you?”

“Of course,” Graves said, going back through the familiar lyrics once more. At the end of the song, before he’d finished singing, “Maybe it’s you,” Credence bent down again and kissed him. 

“Yes,” Credence said. “It’s me. _I_ love you.” He sat back, meeting Graves’ startled gaze with something that looked a whole hell of a lot like defiance. “I didn’t want you to die without telling you that,” he explained.

Graves sat up carefully. His ribs hurt like someone had dropped half a building on him. Pain didn’t matter, though. Nothing else mattered right now but Credence.

Graves cupped Credence’s face in his hands and kissed him, pouring every ounce of longing and desire he’d kept hidden since the first time he realized that he wanted Credence to be his. “I’m not going to die,” he said. “I love you.”

Credence leaned into him, his expression raw and full of a longing that matched Graves’ perfectly. “Promise?” he asked.

“I wish I could,” Graves told him, pressing his forehead against Credence’s, savoring the closeness. “Being an Auror’s not a safe job. That’s partly why I want you to meet Dorothy Collins. This is the sort of thing you should have a support network for. But I can promise you this, Credence: when I die, it won’t be Grindelwald that kills me.”

Credence pulled back, something unreadable and dark in his eyes. “Are you going to kill him first?” he asked, so quiet Graves couldn’t tell if the prospect of murder bothered him or not. Maybe it did. Murder was a sin, according to the the No-Maj religion.

“Yes,” Graves said, unapologetic. “It’s a lot harder for dead men to hurt the living, and Grindelwald’s hurt too many of us already.”

_“Good,”_ Credence said, voice savage. His expression was just as savage, about as far from Credence’s typical sweet nature as it was possible to get.

Credence Barebone – _Credence Graves,_ he corrected himself – was a man to be reckoned with. Feared, even, in the same way that Graves himself was.

Graves stared at him, completely unafraid. Here was the partner he’d never let himself want, in all the lonely years before Credence. The one who could balance his warrior’s nature with a healer’s heart, a partner who could be leaned on. And more than that, the partner who would stand beside him and _fight_ when it counted, who could look at the savage, animalistic parts he normally kept buried and not flinch.

Someone who would instill just as much fear in their enemies as Graves did.

“If you don’t kill him, I will,” Credence continued. “I hate him.”

“I’ll kill him,” Graves promised. He kissed Credence, hard and biting, the way he hadn’t dared to kiss Credence before this. How stupid he was, to think the Credence couldn’t take being kissed like this. He should have trusted Credence’s strength.

He would, going forward.

“I love you,” he said again. “I think I was waiting for you, all those years I spent married to my job.”

“Good,” Credence hissed again, biting back. “You’re _my_ Percival, now, and I am never letting you go. No one gets to take you from me, not ever.”

That was the kind of talk that would have sent Graves running for the hills not long ago, wary of committing to a life partner that wasn’t his job. Now it just sent a thrill down Graves’ spine.

He wanted to haul Credence up, get those long, long legs wrapped around his waist and fuck him up against the wall of their cell, and then he wanted to do it again. He wanted to put his mouth on Credence’s cock and keep him hovering on the edge of coming for so long Credence forgot that anything but Graves existed. He wanted to press kisses over every single one of Credence’s scars, to watch Credence’s skin go goose-pebbled with anticipation.

He hurt too much for that, though. And Credence wasn’t hard at all.

“I’m too tired for sex,” Credence said, when he caught Graves looking.

“I’m in no shape for it either,” admitted Graves. If he tried to pick Credence up now, he’d probably wind up dropping them both. His ribs hurt in a sadly familiar way – the one that meant there were fractures if not outright breaks, and a smart wizard would get himself off to St. Brigid’s Hospital for a lecture, some healing, and quality time with a bottle of Skele-Gro to ensure what was broken was as good as new. There was a tightness in his shoulders that suggested something similar. Graves couldn’t tell if it was muscle damage or more hairline fractures, but the bone in his right arm was definitely broken. Athletic sex was absolutely out of the question. Non-athletic sex was quite possibly also out of the question, although he was certainly willing to give it his best shot if it was what Credence wanted.

He looked over at the breakfast spread that had appeared, sometime while Credence slept. “Breakfast?”

“Breakfast,” Credence agreed, with one last kiss.

 

*

 

Graves’ memories of everything that happened before the world went black were still crystal clear. Grindelwald was hunting for something – something he could only find in New York, if the map on his Investigation Board was any indicator.

Was that why Grindelwald had come to New York in the first place? Was that why he’d stolen Graves’ position at MACUSA – because he thought being the Director of Magical Security would help him find it?

Graves was still mostly convinced that Grindelwald’s visions were pure bullshit, but he had to concede that it was possible that Grindelwald had a vision of something he wanted to find and saw himself finding it in New York.

Grindelwald had been frustrated that the Spell Contraventions Map hadn’t helped him find whatever it was he was looking for. He didn’t like that it didn’t track creatures, or beings of pure magic.  
That was a damning list of things to mention in the same breath. Add that to his peculiar interest in Modesty Barebone, who was all of eight years old and there was really only one possible conclusion.

Grindelwald was looking for an Obscurial.

Obscurials tended to manifest as powerful destructive forces, once the parasite grew strong enough. The Obscurus would lash out to protect its host, sometimes at the host’s instigation but never under the host’s control. Graves wasn’t one hundred percent positive, but he was fairly certain there had never been a single recorded case of the host being able to control the parasite – the Obscurus.

Could Grindelwald? Most Obscurials died before they reached ten years old. Graves supposed you could argue that the reason none of the hosts had been able to control their Obscuri was because they were children, who either lacked the will or the training to control a parasitic magical force. An adult might be able to do better, _if_ the Obscurus could be extracted.

Graves was fairly certain there had never been a single recorded case of a successful extraction, either.

That wouldn’t stop Grindelwald from trying, though.

Graves could imagine what Grindelwald would do with an invisible destructive magical force under his command. It wouldn’t mean anything good for the wizarding world or the No-Maj one.

Fuck. What was he supposed to tell Credence, if the Obscurial turned out to be Modesty Barebone? He’d be heartbroken.

Maybe it wasn’t, though. Grindelwald knew who Modesty was and presumably where to find her. The fact that he hadn’t found the Obscurial yet meant that it probably wasn’t her.

Graves wondered if the Obscurial had manifested yet, or if it only existed in Grindelwald’s visions. He wondered what kind of damage the Obscurus was doing to his city, and if it had hurt any of his people.

Wondering _what if_ would drive him mad in relatively short order. He learned that pretty quick, in the first awful days of captivity. Graves made himself focus on the here and now, cataloging his bruises. He was a mottled yellow-brown pretty much all over; his bruises were healing. Some of them, he noted, were in the shape of a man’s shoes, like Grindelwald had spent some time literally kicking him while he was down and couldn’t fight back. Knowing Grindelwald, he probably had.

He’d lost weight. He’d been losing weight since Grindelwald trapped him in the basement, but the difference two weeks of limited nutrition made was startling. There was no mirror in their cell, but Graves could see his wrists and ribs well enough to know that he probably looked unattractively gaunt. The loss of muscle mass was worse. He _hated_ feeling weak. Building his strength up required more nourishment than Graves was likely to get, though.

He stopped trying to give half his meals to Credence, who had given him a fierce, hot-eyed glare the first time he tried it and informed Graves that if he tried it again, Credence would force feed it to him. Judging by the ferocity of his tone, Credence meant every word of it.

Credence had hit the fatigued portion of pregnancy Graves remembered distinctly from before all three of his nieces and nephews were born. First trimester Dindrane had bitched, endlessly, about being tired all the time and hating how the hormones made her cry at the drop of the hat. She’d hated the loss of control over her own body. (Second trimester Dindrane had been less emotional, but terrifyingly energetic and full of equally terrifying and traumatizing details. Graves hadn’t been able to look his brother-in-law Robert in the eye for weeks while Dindrane had been pregnant with Arthur.)

Graves figured it was okay to abandon their magic lessons for the time being, and just let Credence nap while he stretched, slowly and carefully, testing the limits of his range of motion. He needed to know what would hurt and what didn’t. (Pretty much everything hurt, though, but it was the sort of pain Graves could push through. What were a few fractured bones, compared to the Cruciatus?)

Neither of them had any interest in sex at the moment, and Graves hurt too badly to cuddle Credence properly. So it took him three whole days after he woke up again to realize just how much he’d missed while he’d been unconscious. There was a faint swell to Credence’s stomach – visible proof that their son was growing inside him.

Was it normal for the child to start showing so early? Graves couldn’t remember. Credence was so skinny, though. Not quite as skin-and-bones as he’d been the first time Grindelwald had dragged him down the stairs, but still slender. Credence’s ill-fitting pants used to be a couple of sizes too big, and now they barely fit over his stomach.

“Oh,” Graves said, struck stupid by the realization. “Can I …”

“Can you what?” Credence asked, sounding tired and a little bit grumpy.

“Can I touch you?” Graves asked. “Not for sex,” he clarified hastily. “It’s just – you can see where he’s growing now. I’d like to say hello.”

Credence frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

Right. Credence had spent the last two weeks focused on Graves. He probably hadn’t noticed either.

It took Graves a couple of tries to transfigure a segment of the wall into a reflective surface. He tugged Credence in front of it.

“Take your shirt off and unbutton your union suit,” he said.

“Why?” Credence asked, suspicious.

“Please?”

Credence huffed out a breath. “Fine,” he conceded, with obvious reluctance. It was only once his torso was bare that he realized what Graves wanted to show him. “Oh,” he said, in the exact same tone of voice Graves had used not five minutes ago. “Is that…?”

Graves cupped one protective hand over the faint swell of Credence’s belly. “That’s him,” he said. “That’s our son.”

Credence put one of his hands on top of Graves’. “Hi, baby,” he said, a delighted grin lighting up his face.

Graves reached out with his magic, so their son would know what it felt like, and that it would always keep him safe. “Hello, little one,” he said. “We’re your parents, and we will always keep you safe.”

 

*

 

Credence couldn’t stop resting one hand on the faint swell of his belly, tangible proof that their son was alive and well. It was, by far, his favorite symptom of pregnancy. Percival said that the fatigue and the loss of control over his own body were also symptoms of pregnancy. Credence could have cheerfully given those up, along with morning sickness.

Everything seemed to be a symptom of pregnancy these days, so Credence didn’t worry much when he started feeling cold all the time. He just cuddled in closer next to Percival, mindful of Percival’s hurts. Percival ran warm, like whatever drove him to fight no matter what the cost was lit by some inner fire. 

He hated lying in bed without Percival’s warmth; Percival knew better than to go back to his routine of exercise and shadow boxing, so he did some kind of slow stretch in the mornings while Credence napped and waited for the nausea to pass. He said he was testing his range of motion and trying to build muscle mass back up as much as he could. 

Wampus, Credence thought. Percival’s House at Ilvermorny had chosen well. Percival was a warrior, and he embodied the body of a wizard. He wanted to build his strength back up so he could kill Mr. Grindelwald.

Credence had expected wizards to fight with magic, the way they did everything else. But Mr. Grindelwald had brought Percival back to him unconscious and covered in shoe-shaped bruises. Credence had seen enough of those to recognize them; magic didn’t do that. He _hoped_ magic didn’t do that; that no one had felt the need to replicate plain old human violence with magic, just for efficiency’s sake.

He hadn’t expected wizards to fight the way ordinary people did. But the way Percival insisted on keeping himself fighting fit – the way he _moved,_ like he knew exactly where he needed to place his body to inflict maximum harm – suggested that Percival, at least, could fight the way ordinary people did.

Their cot felt cold without Percival in it, keeping him warm. Being out from underneath the thin blankets was worse. Credence dragged the blankets with him when he felt well enough to eat. 

“Are you alright?” Percival asked.

“I’m a little cold,” Credence admitted. “Why does being pregnant have so many awful symptoms?”

Percival pressed the back of his hand to Credence’s forehead. “You’ve got a fever,” he said. “How do you feel?”

“Tired and sore and a little nauseous,” Credence said automatically, because he felt tired and sore and a little nauseous all the time now and it was awful. “It’s normal though, isn’t it?”

No, said Percival’s expression. There was something in his dark eyes Credence thought might be fear, except Credence didn’t think Percival was scared of anything.

“Come here,” Percival said. “Maybe some body heat will help.”

Credence opened the blankets and let Percival curl up with him. Percival practically dragged Credence into his lap, so that Credence’s back was pressed up against his chest. It had to hurt – Credence knew that Percival was nowhere near healed enough to support Credence’s weight against his ribs, but Percival wrapped his arms around Credence and held on like he would never let go.

“That feels better,” Credence said. It wasn’t like being truly warm, but he was warmer than he had been. And safe. 

“Good,” said Percival, but his voice held a faint thread of worry.

“I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow,” Credence said.

Percival rested his chin on Credence’s shoulder. “How long have you been feeling cold?”

Credence almost shrugged, but he remembered not to jar Percival’s head just in time. “A couple days?” he asked. He’d felt a little off while Percival was still unconscious, but he hadn’t been able to focus on anything but Percival. What did it matter, if he didn’t feel well? Percival was hurt, maybe dying, and Credence had no way to tell if their son was healthy. Percival was the only thing that mattered.

Credence suspected Percival would feel otherwise.

He felt a little guilty. He should have done a better job of taking care of himself – of their son.

“It’s probably nothing,” Percival said, more to himself than Credence. But he followed Credence back to their cot, using magic to heat the thin mattress and their blankets like it was summertime.

Credence sank into the blissful heat and curled into Percival, finally warm for the first time in what felt like forever. He should have said something when he first started feeling cold. Percival could have used magic to make it warm a whole lot sooner. 

Stupid, he thought, too drowsy for the word to hold any sting. He hoped he would feel better in the morning.

He didn’t.

Credence’s throat felt scratchy and sore. Percival forced him to drink some hot peppermint tea, which soothed the sting a little. He still felt cold, though.

Percival pressed the back of his hand to Credence’s forehead again. “You’re burning up,” he said.

Credence shivered. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“You’ve got a cold,” Percival told him. “Don’t worry. There’s a very simple potion that will take care of everything. You’ll be fine.”

Credence hunched in on himself, wrapping his arms around his stomach protectively. “What about him?”

“You’ll _both_ be fine,” Percival said firmly. He turned his attention on the front of their cell, where the invisible barrier was.

Credence realized, too late, what Percival intended to do. He felt Percival’s magic rise up and up, building to an impossible crescendo, before Percival smashed it into the barrier.

“Don’t,” he begged. “He’ll hurt you.”

“Everything’s going to be fine,” Percival said, making a shoving gesture.

Credence felt Percival’s magic hit the barrier and bounce back, gasping a little as he felt it curl around him, the way a friendly cat might twine around someone’s ankles. It made him feel just as safe as he would wrapped up in Percival’s arms: Percival’s magic wouldn’t hurt him, or let anyone else hurt him either.

Mr. Grindelwald appeared at the top of the stairs, wearing his own face and looking rather murderous.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. For once, he didn’t immediately cast the torture curse at Percival. He did, however, lift Percival off his feet with magic, slamming him against the wall somewhere close to the ceiling.

“Credence needs Pepper-Up,” Percival said. “He’s got a cold.”

Mr. Grindelwald turned a contemptuous look on Credence. “He’ll be fine.”

Percival did – _something._ With his magic. Credence couldn’t tell what. But it cancelled out whatever Mr. Grindelwald had done, and he dropped to the floor and landed with a light groan.

“No,” Percival said, voice hard. “You don’t get to ignore this, Grindelwald. He’s pregnant and spent the last couple of weeks stressed and terrified out of his mind, which could have been avoided if you’d just stuck to the Cruciatus and not tossing me into the fucking walls.”

“An error I’m more than willing to remedy,” Mr. Grindelwald hissed.

“Fine!” Percival yelled. “Do what you want to me. I don’t care. Just get Credence some Pepper-Up and warm blankets. Bring him the blue sweater from my closet – it’s the warmest one I’ve got, and I never wear it in public anyhow. Then you can drag me out and torture me all you like. I won’t even try to escape. I _can’t.”_

Mr. Grindelwald said nothing.

“Do you want me to beg?” Percival demanded, sounding angry and frustrated and _tired._ He dropped to his knees. “Please,” he said. “Please, Grindelwald, for the love of magic itself, please give Credence some Pepper-Up before his cold gets any worse. I can’t lose him, okay? I _can’t._ You were _right._ I’ve gotten attached.”

“No,” Mr. Grindelwald said, something strange in his voice. “It’s more than that. You’re not just attached. You’re in love with him.”

Percival’s head snapped up. Credence waited for him to protest – to say something glib and sarcastic, like he usually did. Percival stared at Mr. Grindelwald for a long moment, and whatever he saw made him nod. “Yeah. I am.” He spread his hands apart, beseeching. “My life means nothing without him, Grindelwald. Without _them._ Please, do whatever it takes to ensure that they live.”

Mr. Grindelwald nodded, like Percival had just confirmed a theory for him. “Fine,” he said. A trio of potions bottles appeared in the cell, all labeled “Pepper-Up.” He said nothing else, just turned back towards the stairs.

“What about the torture?” Percival demanded.

If Credence could have gotten out of bed without falling to the ground, he’d have kicked Percival for that.

“I don’t need to torture you, Percival,” said Mr. Grindelwald, not turning back. “Not now. You care for Credence. You _love_ him, and I suspect you’ll do anything I ask to make sure he doesn’t come to harm.

“I’m going to make you regret today for a long, long time.”

Percival gathered up the bottles of Pepper-Up. The liquid inside of them was a vivid red, and when Percival pulled the cork out it released a plume of smoke.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Credence said.

“Drink up,” said Percival. 

The Pepper-Up potion burned all the way down, all heat and spice and liquid fire. Credence felt like his lungs were burning. He also smelled smoke, which turned out to be coming from his ears.

“Common side effect,” Percival said. “It’ll pass in half an hour or so.”

Blankets and a sweater appeared in their cell a moment later. The sweater was royal blue and impossibly soft. Percival bundled Credence into it and something in Credence relaxed, reassured at being surrounded with Percival’s scent. Having Percival himself was even better. Percival knelt on the floor next to their cot, his warm, calloused hands gripping Credence’s own.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Credence said again, once his ears had stopped smoking. He still felt tired, but his throat didn’t hurt as much as it had, and he was warmer than he had been in at least a week. “You made yourself a target on my behalf.”

“Not just yours,” Percival said, dropping his gaze to Credence’s belly. “And it’s not like I didn’t get anything out of that. Grindelwald has a shield charm. Those are incredibly dangerous to make. It takes power and skill to make one. You don’t attempt to make something like that – something that warps pure magic itself – unless you love the person you’re giving it to so much that losing them would be worse than losing your magic. I don’t know who was foolish enough to love Grindelwald like that, but it’s clear that Grindelwald reciprocated. 

“Grindelwald loved someone, once. He loved that wizard so much that the memory of it hurts him still. He’d do anything to keep his lover from harm, and he respects that I’ll do the same. He thinks it will make me easier to manipulate.”

“Doesn’t it?” Credence asked. Percival would do anything to keep him safe; he knew that for a fact. 

“Not as much as he thinks it should,” said Percival. “You’re a man to be feared in your own right, Credence Graves. You’ll fight back and fight hard against anything or anyone that tries to hurt you or our son. If Grindelwald tries to start something with you, I trust you to make him regret it.”

“How?” Credence demanded. “I can’t do what you do, Percival.”

Percival smiled. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

“Argh,” said Credence. There didn’t seem to be anything else _to_ say. “You are _incredibly frustrating_ sometimes, do you know that?”

Percival started laughing. He let go of Credence’s hands and flopped back on the floor, still laughing. “Oh,” he said. “Oh, my ribs. Ow.”

_“Percival,”_ Credence said. He decided he felt okay enough to stand – magic potions were absolutely his favorite kind of magic – and bent down to poke Percival in the chest. “Don’t make fun. It’s mean.”

“I’m not making fun of you, Credence,” Percival said, sitting up slowly. “It’s just – everyone thinks I’m incredibly frustrating, and no one has the balls to tell me so to my face except Seraphina and my sister. I like that you do.”

“Oh,” said Credence, glowing a little. He liked that Percival thought well of him, and that Percival had called him _Credence Graves_ and not _Credence Barebone._ Credence Barebone was stupid and sinful and scared of everything. Credence Graves had magic and a kind heart and a future – one that included a husband and a son and the possibility of friends.

He liked being Credence Graves.

“Come on. Back to bed,” Percival said. “A little rest will do us both some good, I think.”

“Breakfast first,” Credence said firmly. Breakfast had manifested with the blankets and sweater. “Can you warm the porridge up?” Warm porridge might be nice. And for once, the thought of it didn’t make his stomach rebel.

“I – yeah,” Percival said, looking startled. “You don’t feel nauseous?”

“No,” Credence said, just as startled. He looked at the bottles of Pepper-Up. “Potions are _magic.”_

Percival’s mouth twitched. “You would pick my least favorite subject at school,” he murmured.

“You know how to make potions?”

“It’s a required course at Ilvermorny. I can manage the basic potions well enough, but I’m no potions master.”

Required meant that everyone _had_ to learn. Did that mean that anyone _could?_

“Can – could you teach me? Once we’re free?”

“Me? No,” said Percival. “All you’d learn from me is how to blow up a cauldron and some swear words. My brother-in-law, Robert – _he_ could teach you. He works for the Fisher Institute as well, but he prefers a more hands-on approach to research than magical theory. He’s a potions master, too.”

“I don’t want to be a bother,” Credence said, because Robert’s work sounded important.

“You wouldn’t be a bother,” Percival said. “You’d be family.”

Family. Credence Graves had a _family._ “I’d like that,” he said.


	11. Chapter 11

Credence started the next day the way he had almost every day previous to it for the last month: by emptying his belly into the toilet and cursing the existence of morning sickness as strongly as he dared. Pepper-Up, it seemed, wasn’t a magical cure for morning sickness, even if it _had_ cured his cold. 

“Women are insane,” he said. “Or maybe they’re all just stronger than me. Why does _anyone_ do this more than once?”

“You’re plenty strong,” Percival said, handing him a cup of water. “I don’t think I’ve heard you complain even once, since this whole thing started.”

Complaining about your lot in life made you sinful and weak, as well as ungrateful. If you complained about the things you didn’t have, you were more likely to take the things you _did_ have for granted, or so Ma always said. And they were lucky, weren’t they, to have food and clothes and a roof over their heads?

Except he _wasn’t_ sinful or stupid or anything else Ma said he was. Maybe Credence Barebone had been, but he wasn’t Credence Barebone anymore. He was Credence Graves.

“It never really occurred to me that I could complain,” he admitted. “Not that I want to! I’m grateful that our son is healthy. I just don’t like morning sickness.”

“You can complain if you want to,” Percival said. 

Credence thought about it. Complaining about being pregnant seemed … blasphemous, somehow. Like he didn’t _want_ their son. Logically, he knew that was ridiculous, but still couldn’t make himself complain.

He curled up on their cot, relaxing at the feel of Percival’s magic. He could feel it brush over him like a caress, leaving warmth in its wake. “What is that?” he asked. “That spell you just did?”

“You could feel that?” Percival asked.

“I like the way your magic feels,” Credence told him.

Percival grinned. “It’s a warming charm,” he explained. “A simple, useful spell. Would you like me to show you?”

Credence did not think nausea and magic lessons would mix well. But it _did_ sound like a simple, useful spell, and if he’d known it he never would have gotten sick. And if he hadn’t gotten sick, Percival never would’ve tried baiting Mr. Grindelwald.

Again.

“Yes, please,” he said firmly.

Percival banished the warming charm he’d just cast, and then he cast it again, demonstrating the wand movement with his index finger. _“Modestum solis,”_ he said. 

Credence reached out with his own magic, using his mind to shape it into the wand movement Percival had just shown him. _“Modestum solis,”_ he repeated, and felt a flicker of heat. _“Modestum solis,”_ he said again. He put the inflection on the wrong syllable that time and felt the spell go a little bit haywire. The foot of the bed caught fire.

 _“Aguamenti,”_ Percival snapped, and water doused the flames before they got very big.

“Sorry!” Credence said.

“Whatever for? Misfires are par for the course when you’re learning new spells,” Percival assured him. “Try it again.”

 _“Modestum solis,”_ Credence said, careful to pronounce the word exactly like Percival had. A gust of warmth engulfed him, like he was sitting in a patch of sunshine. “Oh,” he said, delighted. “That’s nice.”

“Warming charms are generally cast on objects,” Percival said. “It’s safer. But it’s possible to cast them on people, if you’re careful.”

“I don’t think I want to try that yet,” Credence said. “I don’t want to set _you_ on fire.”

“We can work on it later,” Percival agreed.

“Can _you_ cast it on people?” Credence asked, fairly certain that the answer was _yes._

“Yes. I’ve had rather a lot of practice at it. Hughes – my lieutenant – has the circulatory system of a mermaid. Metaphorically. I don’t think Hughes is _actually_ cold-blooded, but she _hates_ the cold more than anyone I’ve ever met. Even wizards from places like _Arizona_ are better about cold than Hughes.”

“Your lieutenant,” Credence repeated.

“Hughes is a Senior Investigating Auror for Major Investigations,” Percival explained. “Most SIA’s head up their own teams, but Major Investigations is mine, so she’s my lieutenant. Major Investigations is usually just me and Hughes and Summersea and Collins, though. And sometimes McRory, but McRory’s new and still learning what it means to be Deputy Director of Magical Security, so he doesn’t really count. McRory was hired maybe a week before Grindelwald captured me, so I haven’t had much of a chance to work with him. He strikes me as more of an administrator than investigator, anyway. Schwarz, my last Deputy Director, went to the West Coast office with Norton. She knew I wanted Norton to head up the West Coast office someday, and wanted to ensure that there would be a smooth transition of power.” He trailed off, obviously thinking of Norton.

“Tell me about your team?” Credence asked, before Percival could sink too deeply into blaming himself for Norton’s death. “You mentioned that Dorothy Collins is married to one of them.”

“Collins,” Percival said. “Ah. Alexander Collins. I don’t typically use first names at work. Habit.”

Credence suspected this was less a habit and more a way for Percival to keep everyone else at arm’s length, the way he seemed to think the Head of Magical Law Enforcement needed to.

Percival considered Alexander Collins carefully. “Collins and Dorothy are … well matched. Collins is just as sweet as she is, which you’d think would make him completely useless as an Auror, but it doesn’t. It _does_ make him good with witnesses, though. Alexander Collins is the one you want asking you questions, when you’re in shock and you feel like the world is ending. He’ll be nice about it, too. Collins is the sort of Auror who’ll make sure the victims get warm blankets and hot chocolate and that the suspects don’t have anything to complain to their lawyers about.”

Alexander Collins _did_ sound nice. Credence wondered if Collins knew how highly Percival thought of him.

Probably not. Head of Magical Law Enforcement, and all that.

That was okay. Credence would just make sure to tell him, once they’d actually met.

“Collins is tall, although not as tall as Summersea. Light brown hair and honey-brown eyes. Half our secretarial pool is madly in love with him, but he’s so besotted with Dorothy that he never notices. Part of it’s because of how he looks, and part of it’s because he’s genuinely _nice._ He’ll remember your name and your parents names and ask you how they’re doing every time he sees you. And if you’re having a bad day, he’ll fuss like the world’s tallest mother hen.”

Mr. Grindelwald had said something to that effect, Credence remembered. Except he’d said it like a threat.

“Like I said, he and Dorothy are well matched,” Percival concluded. “He’s the most junior member on my team. He’s damn good at what he does, though, so no one give him any shit for it. Not that the other two would let them. Hughes, especially. As far as Hughes is concerned, _she’s_ the only one who gets to torment Collins. She really doesn’t like it when other people try and poach on her territory.”

“She sounds like you,” Credence pointed out, because that brand of possessive sounded very familiar.

Percival gave him a faintly scandalized look. “I am nothing like Hughes! Hughes is ten pounds of crazy in a five pound bag!”

“And you still made her your second-in-command,” Credence said, skeptical.

“You don’t understand,” Percival said. “Win’s crazy is _persuasive._ She’s not like Theseus. She doesn’t think she needs to do the impossible. She’s just – she comes up with these absolutely _terrible_ ideas for how to solve cases, and then she _talks you into them_ and they _work._ It’s awful. It’s fucking awful policing, and it _works.”_

“Uh huh,” Credence said, bemused. “I think I’d like to meet her.”

“No,” Percival said immediately. “Absolutely not. You do not want any part of her shenanigans, trust me.”

Credence couldn’t resist the urge to tease him a little. “She sounds like fun.”

Percival made a noise like a strangled duck. 

Credence couldn’t stop the giggle that broke free.

Percival narrowed his eyes. “Are you _teasing?”_ he asked. 

“Yes,” Credence said, unrepentant. He pressed a kiss to the corner of Percival’s mouth in apology.

“Little minx,” Percival grumbled, looking pleased.

“Why _did_ you make Hughes your second-in-command, if she’s that much trouble?” Credence asked.

“Because she’s the best Auror I’ve ever met,” Percival said immediately. “She was wasted in every department she was assigned to before I got my hands on her. No one knew what to do with her. She was too mouthy, too independent, too out of the box. No one thought she’d do well in Major Investigations, but Major Investigations is where she _shines._ She’s got reflexes like you wouldn’t believe; she’s incredibly fucking fast with her wand, which is _exactly_ the kind of witch you want standing next to you in a firefight. Win has won the annual dueling championship the last five years running.”

“Win?”

“It’s the only thing she’ll answer to, outside of Hughes,” Percival told him. “Her full name is Winifred Hughes. Her parents died when she was small, so her oldest brothers pretty much raised her. Win’s got five older brothers and one younger. Ezra and Miles didn’t know much about raising little boys, much less little girls, so the youngest four grew up … a little wild. It explains a lot about her personality, really.”

Percival _liked_ her personality. Credence could tell. Percival wouldn’t have sounded nearly so amused if he wasn’t secretly fond of Win Hughes’ persuasive brand of crazy.

“I have no idea where her vocabulary came from,” Percival sighed. “Hughes could make a sailor blush.”

“What does she look like?” Credence asked. He liked imagining what Percival’s team looked like. He wondered if the reality of them would match up.

“Five foot three, blue eyes, long brown hair that she never, ever wears all the way down. It’s her one concession to femininity, I think, because she wears it charmed into the most elaborate braids you can imagine. Blind as a bat without her glasses, which makes stealing them effective revenge.”

“That sounds a little mean, though.”

“Summersea only does it when he’s fed up with her shenanigans,” Percival assured him. “And since John Summersea has the patience of a saint, Hughes usually deserves it whenever Summersea decides to be vengeful.

“Summersea’s pretty level-headed. He has to be. The wizarding world is more progressive than the No-Maj one, but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t run into more than his fair share of discrimination against colored people. As if the color of his skin has anything to do with his talent as a wizard,” Percival huffed, with some of the rumbling growl he used whenever he was thinking about Mr. Grindelwald. 

Credence hid his smile against Percival’s chest. He liked that Percival was so obviously protective of his team. Percival was going to make an amazing father.

“Summersea’s tall and lean. He’s got curly hair he usually wears cropped close to his head, and it’s started going grey. He wears it better than I do.”

“I like the grey,” Credence said, because he did. The silver streaks at Percival’s temples looked dignified.

“Really?” Percival asked.

“Really,” Credence assured him. If he weren’t so tired all the time, he would demonstrate exactly how much he liked it. Being too tired for sex was awful. He’d only just discovered how wonderful it could be, and now the very thought of it made him exhausted.

“Oh,” said Percival, looking pleased with himself.

Credence poked him. “You were telling me about Summersea?”

“Right. Summersea’s quiet. He’s the one you want asking questions when you _know_ the bastard’s guilty and don’t have _quite_ enough evidence to prove it. He’s fantastic at giving people just enough rope to hang themselves with. Observant as hell, too. He uses up all the time other people spend talking to notice details other people miss. He and Hughes work well together, although neither of them will ever admit it.

“Summersea likes to pretend he wants no part in anyone’s shenanigans, but he’ll have your back full stop no matter what.” There was a smile in Percival’s voice that told Credence there was a story there. “He’ll just be quietly judgey about it. Really, he’s very sarcastic for a man who doesn’t talk much.”

“You like sarcastic, though,” Credence pointed out.

“I do,” Percival agreed. “John’s been married going on twenty years now. He’s got three teenagers, which he claims is why he wants no part in anyone else’s madness – he’s got more than his fair share waiting for him at home. Which is ridiculous, really. His kids are all at Ilvermorny. Charlotte, his eldest, is graduating this year. She’s got an apprenticeship with the Bluebird lined up. Summersea’s thrilled. The Bluebird doesn’t usually take apprentices – she says she’s allergic to young people – but Charlotte’s got a gift. It would be a shame to squander that, under an inferior healer.”

Credence narrowed his eyes, because that was Percival’s quoting voice. He wasn’t using anyone else’s accent, though.

“Percival,” he said. “Did you convince the Bluebird to take Summersea’s daughter as an apprentice?”

“How the hell did you figure that out?” Percival asked. 

“You were using your quoting voice, but you weren’t using a different accent,” Credence said.

“My quoting voice,” Percival repeated. “I have a quoting voice?”

“Yes,” said Credence.

“Tituba’s bones, you’d be one hell of an Auror,” Percival said admiringly.

“I don’t want to be an Auror,” Credence said. “I want you to be my husband, not my boss.”

“I want that too,” Percival said. “But you _would_ be one hell of an Auror. Not even Summersea managed to figure that out, which is good, seeing as I was trying to keep it from him.” He tapped the tip of Credence’s nose. “So don’t you go telling him. It’s a secret.”

“Why?” Credence asked.

Percival winced. “Because I set up a scholarship for Charlotte with the Bluebird, to make sure that there was adequate funding for an apprentice. I’m sure the hospital would have _found_ adequate funding, if the Bluebird had asked for it – they’d bend over backwards to make sure that she’s happy – but since I was already asking Aelinor for a favor, it didn’t seem right to force her to jump through a bunch of bureaucratic hoops to get it. It was easier to make a private donation, earmarked for the Bluebird’s use.”

Credence had no idea what a wizarding education cost. He suspected that an apprenticeship with someone as famous as the Bluebird cost quite a lot. 

“John would never forgive me, if he found out,” said Percival, confirming his suspicion. “He’d think it was charity.”

“Isn’t it?” Credence asked.

“Hell, no. It’s an investment. Charlotte’s talented. Maybe not quite on the Bluebird’s level, but closer than anyone else has come in years. Even if Charlotte decides she’d rather work for a private hospital where they pay her what she’s worth, MACUSA will still have her for the three years she’s an apprentice. That’s a lot of potential lives saved.”

Somehow, Credence didn’t think it was the potential lives saved Percival had been thinking of when he’d set up a scholarship for Charlotte Summersea. That wasn’t who Percival was, even if he liked to pretend otherwise.

Percival, Credence thought, was a little bit like King Arthur. He didn’t have the title, but he was definitely a warrior king. Percival’s people were _Percival’s,_ which meant that no one else got to threaten them or make them feel unsafe. Collins and Hughes and Summersea were like Percival’s knights; they might have all worked for MACUSA, but Credence suspected they were just as loyal to Percival as he was to them. And in return for their fealty, Percival would do everything in his power to make sure that they – and their loved ones – were safe and happy and prosperous.

“I won’t tell,” he promised.

He wondered how a warrior king’s consort was supposed to behave. None of the kings or knights in Percival’s stories had husbands instead of wives, or even the faintest hint of a male lover. (Well, mostly. The story about Gawain swapping kisses with the non-magically transformed version of the Green Knight made him wonder about that a little.) He wanted to be a good helpmeet for Percival, but he had no idea what that entailed now that he seemed to be dealing with the modern day version of a warrior king. Back when he’d just been dealing with _Percival,_ he’d hoped it would be enough to keep Percival’s house and learn to cook properly for him. But surely a warrior king’s consort needed to be his equal – someone strong enough to protect their people, if the king himself could not.

Percival’s people would be his people, he decided. Percival would look after his knights and Credence would look after their loved ones. He didn’t know how he was going to do that yet, but he had magic and Percival and a future. He would think of something.

 

*

 

Graves used to mark time by the frequency of Grindelwald’s visits. In the early days of his captivity they’d been a daily thing – a quick spot of torture, which would be met with sarcasm or stubborn silence, because all Grindelwald wanted was someone to _hurt._ The demands for information on how to pass as the actual Head of Magical Law Enforcement had come later. The visits had slowed, up until Grindelwald brought Credence to him that first time. And now the only reliable measure of time was the frequency by which their meals appeared.

Grindelwald hadn’t stopped by their cell in over a week. Closer to four, if what Credence said about what happened when Graves was unconscious was true. Credence had no reason to lie, so it had to be.

Grindelwald had been searching for the Obscurial for close to a month now. Had he found it yet? What was he going to do with it once he had it?

Graves didn’t want to think about what would happen if Grindelwald found a way to control the Obscurus. Grindelwald was powerful enough on his own. If he had a dark, parasitic destructive force at his command … Wizarding America would fight. MACUSA would fight. Seraphina and his team would fight. And they’d die, while Graves was still stuck in this fucking cell.

What kind of world would Arthur and Gwen and Lance grow up in, if Grindelwald won? What kind of world would _his son_ grow up in?

If Grindelwald won, there would be no Fisher Institute for Arthur, no MACUSA and brilliant career in politics for Gwen. There would be no dreams for Lance to aspire to. His niece and nephews would have no future. If they were lucky, Grindelwald would leave them alone. If they weren’t, Grindelwald would steal them to continue perverting the Graves line; he’d make them his puppets. 

If Grindelwald won, his son wouldn’t be Graves’ or Credence’s. He wouldn’t have Credence’s kind heart, or Graves’ tendency to use sarcasm to convey affection. He’d be Grindelwald’s general, raised to despise No-Maj’s and anyone with magic weaker than his own.

Graves could not afford to let Grindelwald win. He had to find a way to stop Grindelwald, for the sake of the future he wanted to build.

“You’re thinking about Mr. Grindelwald again, aren’t you?” Credence asked with a sigh. He stopped trying to mend the disaster Graves had made of his trousers and padded over to Graves. Graves watched him, drinking in the sight of Credence clad in just Graves’ favorite blue sweater. The sweater hid the gentle swell of Credence’s belly, but it wouldn’t for much longer.

He liked it more than he thought he would. The sight of his lover, belly rounded with his child, wearing Graves’ own clothes. It made the savage, animalistic part of his brain go quiet with satisfaction.

“Grr,” said Credence, pressing a kiss to Graves’ cheek. “Growly Percival.”

And, well, Graves _had_ to kiss him after that, didn’t he? “Promise me,” he said, “that you won’t do that in front of my Aurors.”

A month ago, Credence would have agreed without thinking about it. Now he just looked at Graves and let his expression go politely inquiring. 

“It’s fucking adorable,” Graves said. “My reputation for being a cold-hearted bastard will never survive if my Aurors see me go all doe-eyed over my adorable husband.”

Credence burst into laughter. “You are not a cold-hearted bastard,” he said, sounding fond.

“Don’t tell my Aurors that, either.”

“I’m going to tell them you’re ridiculous,” Credence said cheerfully. “And terrible at tailoring charms.”

“That’s what my tailor’s for!” Graves protested. Fabric and magic didn’t mix, in Graves’ opinion. He’d tried extending the waistband of Credence’s trousers, so they’d fit more comfortably around his belly and the results were decidedly lopsided. Credence was doing what he could to fix them with a transfigured needle and thread. It was possible, Graves admitted, that he should have _started_ with having Credence fix them by hand, since Credence seemed to know what he was doing. It would’ve saved a lot of bother in the long run.

“Mending is a basic life skill, Percival,” Credence said. “You shouldn’t need a tailor for it.”

“My tailor is good at it,” Graves argued. “I am not. I am, however, willing to pay him handsomely for his skills. This seems like a fair division of labor.”

“Ordinary people manage their mending _by hand,”_ Credence pointed out, amused. “Tailoring charms seem like useful magic. I bet I could learn them.”

“I bet you could too,” agreed Graves. “Or I could just take you to my tailor. I _want_ to take you to my tailor, actually.”

“You don’t need to go to any bother,” Credence demurred.

“It wouldn’t be a bother,” Graves told him. “You should have comfortable paternity clothes. And after our son is born, you should have clothes that flatter how lovely you are.”

“Percival,” Credence protested, blushing.

The awful No-Maj woman had convinced him he was ugly. It was one more thing on a long list of reasons Graves would cheerfully strangle Mary Lou Barebone for if he ever set eyes on her.

“I’ve been thinking about it,” Graves confided. “Since the second time Grindelwald brought you to me, actually. I wanted to take you to Tómas, and have him outfit you in nice clothes. Tómas will kit you out properly. Real suits, soft cotton shirts, and trousers that show off how long your legs are _and_ flatter your backside.”

Tómas would enjoy the challenge, and the chance to make a substantial dent in Graves’ bank account.

Credence went a little redder. _“Percival,”_ he said again, a little more scandalized this time.

“What? It’s a nice backside. I like looking at it. I especially like looking at it and knowing that no one else is allowed to touch it but me,” Graves said, stealing a kiss.

Credence gave him a baleful look. Then he stomped back to their cot and resumed trying to fix his trousers. 

“Credence?” Graves asked, following him. He knelt next to the cot. “What did I say that upset you?”

“Nothing,” Credence said, going steadily redder. His blush was totally at odds with his expression.

“I’m sorry,” Graves offered. “For whatever it was.”

“It’s nothing,” Credence said, a little sharper.

“Alright,” Graves said, utterly baffled now.

Credence deflated. “I’m _tired,”_ he said, rubbing his belly. “And you’re –” he made an awkward hand gesture. “You’re _charming.”_

“I’m sorry?” Graves said. He was more baffled now that he’d gotten an explanation than he had been without one.

“Argh,” said Credence, ducking his head in embarrassment. “I miss –” He made another incomprehensible hand gesture. When he saw that the incomprehensible hand gesture failed to clarify anything in the slightest, he said, “I miss sex,” in a voice so quiet it was nearly inaudible. “And then you say things like _that_ and I remember how _nice_ it is, except thinking about it just makes me feel exhausted. It’s _awful.”_

Graves bit his tongue to keep from laughing. Credence would never forgive him if he started laughing now.

“If it helps,” he said, “the fatigue should pass soon. It’s a first trimester thing. You’ll get your energy back in the second trimester.”

“Really?” Credence asked.

“It’s what I’ve heard,” Graves said. “In great and traumatizing detail.” He was glad Dindrane and Robert found their marriage bed so satisfying, really, he was. He loved them both and wanted them to be happy. He just absolutely did not want to know the details.

He, at least, felt no need to share them. He didn’t think Credence did, either. If Dindrane asked Credence for details, Credence might actually die of embarrassment and Graves would be forced to commit sororicide.

Credence blinked. “Traumatizing?”

“Dindrane,” Graves said, long-suffering. “If _she_ had to suffer during pregnancy, everyone else had to suffer with her. She had a valid point, but I could’ve done without a few of the details.”

Credence winced as he put together exactly what details Graves could have gone without. “I can see how that would be traumatizing,” he conceded, although there was something speculative in his expression that set Graves’ nerves on edge.

If _Credence_ asked Dindrane for details, Graves was fairly certain his sanity would never recover. 

“Quite,” Graves said, firmly shutting the door on that line of thought. He stole a kiss, just because he could. “Hang in there, lovely. I’ll do whatever you want soon enough, when you have the energy for it. You won’t be tired forever.”

“Argh,” said Credence. “When you say things like that it makes it worse!”

“Sorry,” Graves said, not feeling sorry about it at all.

Credence’s expression suggested that he was going to make Graves regret it, as soon as the first trimester fatigue passed.

Graves looked forward to it.

 

*

 

Grindelwald failed to show his face for the next week, and the week after that. Graves began to hope, tentative and secretly, that Grindelwald had lost interest in them entirely. He didn’t dare risk another attack on the wards, not just yet, but he kept his magic ready.

And then one day, at the start of the third week in a row Grindelwald hadn’t barged into their basement prison, their dinner failed to appear.

“Bastard,” Graves said, pressing the leftovers from lunch on Credence. “He’s probably sulking. He used to forget to feed me a lot, before he decided to take you prisoner too.”

“Sulking,” Credence repeated, looking doubtful. He ate reluctantly, looking like he wanted nothing more than to force the food down Graves’ throat.

“He’s appallingly petty, for a would-be tyrant,” Graves said.

“Yes,” Credence said, nibbling on the sandwich. “I’m beginning to see that.”

There was no breakfast the next morning, even after Credence’s morning sickness had passed. There was no lunch, either.

There would be no dinner, Graves knew. Their meals weren’t on any sort of automatic timer. They ate based on what and when Grindelwald felt like feeding them, because Grindelwald was petty like that.

Grindelwald had either decided that they – and their son, Grindelwald’s prophesied general – were expendable, or something else had happened.

Something like Grindelwald getting caught.

They’d starve to death before anyone found out where their prison was. Grindelwald had put the entire basement under a Fidelius charm.

“I’m going to try something foolish,” Graves warned Credence, after twenty-four hours with no food.

“Don’t,” Credence begged. “Not on my account, or his. We’ll be fine, Percival.”

“Not for much longer, you won’t,” Graves said grimly. “Besides, if I’m right, this will mean rescue for both of us.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Credence demanded.

Graves shrugged, loose and easy. Enough time had passed that he could pretend that his ribs didn’t hurt like all the fires whenever he moved. “Then I’m wrong. It won’t be anything I haven’t faced before.”

“You shouldn’t have to, though,” Credence pointed out.

“You’re worth it,” Graves said, kissing Credence before he lost his nerve. “You both are.” He gathered his magic to him, letting it build. He hadn’t used any of his magic at full strength in months now – not even during his ill-conceived attack on Grindelwald. 

Graves might not have been at full-strength physically, but magically? He’d been pretending to be less of a wizard than he was so that Grindelwald would underestimate him for months now. His magic curled around him like a living thing, waiting to be used.

“Percival,” Credence begged. _“Please_ don’t make me watch him hurt you.”

“I won’t,” Graves promised. “Not while there’s breath in my body to stop him, I swear it.” He felt his magic crest and _slammed_ it in the familiar weak point in Grindelwald’s wards. 

If Grindelwald was still alive and free, like Graves was afraid he was, that little display of power would send him running.

Graves wasn’t going to stand around and wait for that to happen. He let his magic build again until it finally burst free, tearing into the wards and the invisible barrier to their cell like they were made of wet paper.

There was a reason wizards used wands to channel their magic. Wands gave their magic direction, made it easier to control. Letting that much pure magic loose with barely any control was more exhausting than the non-stop magical firefights during the war, to say nothing of infinitely more destructive.

Graves yanked it back, trying to contain it. He didn’t want to bring the basement down on top of them. He had no interest in a Pyrrhic victory; he had to get Credence somewhere _safe._

Credence fisted one hand in the back of Graves’ shirt, reminding Graves what he was fighting for.

You’re mine, he thought, baring his teeth as he pulled the magic back under his skin where it belonged. You’re mine and you will _do as I say._ It was like trying to wrestle with a wampus cat; unleashed, his magic had a mind of its own. Graves had been setting his will against his magic since he was a child, though, and he had no intention of letting it best him today. He yanked it back under his control and immediately used it to put a shield around both of them.

“Stay behind me,” he rasped. “We’re not safe yet.”

“We’re free,” Credence said, sounding stunned. Credence didn’t like to push the boundaries of their cell as much as Graves did, but he still knew where they were and when they passed them.

Graves wished like hell he’d mastered wandless Apparition. He put that on the list of skills to work on in the event of another genocidal maniac and grabbed Credence’s hand, staggering towards the stairs. There was a portkey in the kitchen that would take them both straight to Graves’ office at MACUSA.

“Are you alright?” Credence asked. “You don’t look well.”

“Just tired,” Graves lied. He felt like he’d gone three rounds with Grindelwald and lost every one. Letting go of his magic the way he had had a price. Black spots danced in his vision, threatening to drag him down into the dark again.

No wonder Obscurials died so young. Manifesting your magic as a destructive force took its toll on the body. There was no way a child could continue to do so and live; their little bodies couldn’t take the strain.

He tensed as they reached the top of the basement stairs, because there were voices coming from the kitchen – _familiar_ voices.

“Madam President, be reasonable,” Summersea said, his familiar tenor going a bit strained around the edges. He clearly didn’t think Seraphina was going to be reasonable at all, and was maybe half a minute away from hitting her with a _petrificus totalus_ for her own good.

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Hughes snarled. Possibly also at Seraphina. “I’m the best duellist MACUSA’s got _and_ I’m more expendable than you, so _get the fuck out of my way and let me do my fucking job.”_

Seraphina hissed, low and angry. 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Graves said, exasperated. He hexed the basement door off its hinges and watched what seemed like half of MACUSA flinch back and aim their wands in his direction. 

Summersea had managed to shove Seraphina behind him, but she took advantage of his distraction to push forward again. There was no one standing between her and Graves. If Graves had actually been a threat, she’d have been an easy target.

“Damn it, Seraphina,” Graves snapped. “How many times have I told you – you _can’t lead from the front._ What happens to MACUSA if you get yourself killed? You’re the president! You shouldn’t be a first responder to _any_ crisis.” 

Hexing the door off its hinges took more out of him than it should have. He was going to pass out very shortly. Possibly as soon as he was done yelling at Seraphina for being a reckless fucking idiot.

“Percival?” Seraphina asked. There was a very faint hint of a tremor in her voice; he was probably the only one who knew her well enough to hear it. Seraphina was terrified.

“If my team tells you to get out of their way, then you _get out of their way._ Hughes is right. She’s a better duelist _and_ more expendable. You should’ve flung her down the stairs like cannon fodder, not argued with her about it.”

“Aw, thanks, boss,” Hughes muttered, red oak wand still trained on Graves.

“Marie Leveau,” Seraphina said. “It really _is_ you.”

“Percival Graves, at your service,” Graves said, exactly the way he had the day they’d met. He didn’t dare attempt the bow he’d used. He was fairly certain he’d fall over if he did.

“And who is this?” Seraphina asked, gesturing behind him to Credence.

“Credence Graves,” Graves informed her, ignoring the startled gasps. “He needs food. And an appointment with the Bluebird. Immediately.”

“You need it more,” Credence muttered. “You’re the one Mr. Grindelwald likes to hurt.”

“True,” Graves said, giddy at the prospect of safety. “But I’m not the one who’s pregnant.” He turned back to Credence; the black spots had all but taken over his vision. “I overdid it, getting us out,” he said apologetically. “I’m going to rest for a bit, alright? Trust Seraphina and my team. They’ll take care of you.”

“Percival,” Credence cried.

“Everything is going to be alright,” Graves promised him, and passed out.

**Author's Note:**

> [I am also on tumblr](http://terriblelifechoices.tumblr.com) You are more than welcome to come scream about fandom with me there.


End file.
